Where He Can Follow
by TaelynHawker
Summary: Sherlock was a man without weakness until John Watson came along. Now he would burn all of London, even himself, if it meant keeping John safe. After the incident at the pool, the rules of the game have changed between Sherlock and Moriarty. Sherlock takes drastic measures to win, faking his death and leaving London to hunt down the madman and his pet assassin. JOHNLOCK
1. Chapter 1

******Title:** Where He Can Follow  
**Author:** taelynhawker **  
****Artist: **thedeathchamber (art is available on lj under username thedeathchamber. It is lovely, so very lovely go look!)**  
****Beta:** nynxlynx (over on livejournal)**  
****Genre: **Angst, Case fic, Romance, Hurt/Comfort**  
****Pairing:** John/Sherlock**  
****Rating:** NC-17**  
****Word Count**: 31k**  
****Warning/Spoilers:** AU after TTG. Possibly still minor spoilers for S2. Character "death", written for the johnlockbigbang over on livejournal.**  
****Summary:** Sherlock was a man without weakness until John Watson came along. Now he would burn all of London, even himself, if it meant keeping John safe. After the incident at the pool, the rules of the game have changed between Sherlock and Moriarty. Sherlock takes drastic measures to win, faking his death and leaving London to hunt down the madman _and_ his pet assassin. But John has never been one to wait behind in safety, and he'd follow Sherlock anywhere, even into death._ After_ he kills James Moriarty, that is.

**Prologue**

**December 18th, 2010 - South Laggan, Scotland:**

In the dark, in the quiet fog, there are two sounds.

The steady drum of rain that has not let up for the last four days.

And a single gunshot.

Greg stumbles, catches himself on the thick trunk of a wet tree, breath heavy and hands numb with the cold.

"John!" Even as he screams he knows it's stupid. John won't answer him and it's entirely possible that Moriarty or one of his men will be the one to hear him instead.

John is willing to die for this; Greg is hoping to live through it, maybe live to see Christmas Day. He's hoping to get John through it as well.

He pulls out his mobile, but it still blinks no signal up at him. His eyes roll heavenward, but he knows there will be no help from there either. So, he assesses the situation at hand.

The rain is making it both dark and slippery, impeding his hearing and his sight. He has no signal, and the car is at least a mile back through the fog laden woods. He'd lost John over a half hour ago. He's got four guns on his person in total.

It wasn't supposed to go this way. They'd had a plan, damn it, he and John. Except that Greg can't send out the message for back up, and John's lost his damned mind and run off ahead, and the weather is abhorrent.

"Fuck all," Greg mutters to himself.

He takes a deep breath, settles his gun in his hand, and steps around the tree.

He stops dead in his tracks, gun wavering like it hasn't since training. He makes a strangled noise, tries to speak, but finds he can't. Then a man is shoved into his arms, bleeding and groaning, barely conscious. John, he realizes, it's John.

"Get him out of here."

Greg stares at the speaker, at the man who should not be alive to be speak a word.

"Are you listening to me? There's an assassin, _the_assassin, whose sole task is to kill John Watson. Get him out of here."

"You're dead."

Sherlock Holmes, who a little over a year ago was killed in the bombing of St. Bart's hospital, sneers at him. "Clearly not. Save your idiotic, and clearly incorrect, observations for later. He needs medical attention! _Now_!"

And then Sherlock disappears into the dark and the rain, making a ruckus, certainly more noise than he'd made getting to Greg's location. Of course, Greg realizes, he's drawing attention away from he and John.

John Watson moans out a not-quite dead man's name.

"Alright, alright, John, let's just get you out of here." His voice and hands are steady. Inside, if he's honest, he's terrified.

Moments pass, too many, more than John can afford if the blood pouring out of his shoulder is anything to go by. Three shots ring out, much farther to the south of their position. In his arms, John stirs, showing more awareness than he has since Sherlock handed him over.

"Sh'lock," he mumbles and rallies his strength for one brief moment to struggle against Greg's hold.

Greg's about to pick the other man up, throw him over his shoulder if he has to, when a bright spotlight pierces through the trees, throwing everything into sharp light and shadow.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" A voice calls out from the light, though it is impossible for Greg to see the speaker's face.

"Yes," he answers, gun aiming towards the voice.

"Mycroft Holmes is waiting for you beyond the safety perimeter. We were sent to find you and a Dr. John Watson?" The man is finally close enough that Greg can see his military uniform. Mycroft has pulled out the big guns on this one.

Greg nods his head towards John and the man raises his hand and waves someone forward. Two medics take John, and Greg lets him go reluctantly, hand still tight on his gun.

"Mr. Holmes asked me to bring you straight to him," the man says.

"Sorry, but Mr. Holmes is going to have to wait until I make sure my friend is being taken care of."

"I can assure you-"

"It's non-negotiable," he says firmly, meeting the man's eyes.

He gives the barest nod, and Greg takes off after John and the medics.

An hour later, during which he watches as John Watson is bundled into the back of an ambulance and driven away, he finds himself in the back a fancy black car, windows tinted so dark he can barely see outside. Mycroft Holmes sitting across from him, calmly explaining that his brother must still be in the woods hunting an assassin, and looking entirely unsurprised by Greg's declaration that his brother is, in fact, still alive at all.

"You knew?" he asks, and rubs the towel over his hair again. He's waterlogged, and now that he's no longer running on an adrenaline high, he's feeling the cold and the wet and the overwhelming nausea because _Sherlock fucking Holmes is alive _and has been this whole time.

"Of course not." Mycroft's fingers tap lightly against the handle of his umbrella. "However, you don't honestly believe you and John were the only two determined to do something about the... Moriarty situation, do you?"

"John said he went to you, that you refused to do anything. You told him, you told _me_, it was just the grief making him so desperate."

Mycroft nods. "Just so. I was trying to keep him safe; it was the last thing my brother asked of me. It seemed the thing to do, honor his last wishes." He sounds very nearly disgusted with himself. "While John was chasing his clues, I was following my own. I have to say I am impressed his search yielded such conclusive results."

"Like that your brother is alive?" And he can't quite keep the _you bloody tosser _out of his tone.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, taps again on that damned umbrella. "Oh, John's findings uncovered much more than the possibility of my brother being alive, although I doubt he's aware he found much at all. His work has allowed me to cut quite a few of the strings from Moriarty's web." The man smiles, a slight tilt of his lips. "My brother was particularly accurate with _that_description. A spider, indeed."

Greg is silent for a few moments. It's not as if this is his first time dealing with Mycroft. He's dealt with the elder Holmes plenty since the day he saved Sherlock from overdosing and promised him cases if he kept clean. Granted, those dealings have usually been over the phone, and Greg has always been more than comfortable with that. Mycroft Holmes is disconcerting in ways that are entirely different from the ways in which Sherlock can be just as disconcerting.

"Speaking of your brother," Greg finally says, letting the towel rest around his neck. "Aren't you a bit worried that he's out there in the dark and the rain chasing after a psychopath and his trained assassin?"

At this Mycroft smile again, though as usual it doesn't meet his eyes. "If I know my brother the assassin is quite dead by now, and Moriarty has already been taken care of. Sherlock should be-"

He's cut off by the door opening. A familiar figure folds himself into the seat beside Greg, giving his brother a disdainful eye roll before quirking a smile at Greg himself. His hair is wet and plastered to his forehead, and there's mud all over the side of his face and down his neck. But Greg would recognize him if he were suddenly ginger and running about in makeup.

"I was going to say Sherlock should be joining us any moment, but here he is." Mycroft finishes.

"Take me to John," Sherlock says by way of greeting.

"It's good to see you, too, brother."

"Would someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on?" Greg explodes, because the two of them are acting as if Sherlock's wasn't dead just over an hour ago and John hasn't been shot and like Greg's entire world hasn't been turned up on its head the last six months.

They both turn their gazes on him. He swallows. It is unnerving to have the attention of both Holmes brothers.

"I'll explain it." Sherlock's eyes cut to his brother. The light hits him just right and Greg realizes that it's blood, not mud, all over his face. "Once my brother tells this car to move and takes me to John."

"I've already received an update. Your doctor will be fine. They've got the bleeding under control and the bullet went cleanly through."

Sherlock says nothing. Mycroft's eyebrow lowers, just a fraction. Lestrade stares between the two of them, quite sure he's missing an entire conversation.

The umbrella comes up fast, whipping past Greg's face to tap on the glass separating them from driver. The car comes to life under them and they begin to move.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One**

Lestrade lets them leave the pool with a minimal amount of pestering. Mostly because Mycroft rides in to the rescue, ordering the DI around and sending a surprisingly agreeable Sherlock home with John in the black car John is well familiar with these days.

_Keep a close eye on him - MH_

The text pops up on John's mobile not two minutes into the ride. John doesn't bother responding. John has had his eyes riveted to Sherlock since the moment Moriarty finally left the pool for good.

On the flip side, Sherlock has not looked away from John either. John's not even really sure he's blinked.

Anthea, which is the name John has decided to stick with for Mycroft's elusive and apparently nameless assistant has actually looked away from her blackberry to watch them.

Sherlock has a hand fisted in John's jumper, which is really only halfway on John at this point. His fingers are warm where they're pressing against John's side.

Sherlock is not, by nature, a physical man. It isn't that he respects personal space, he blatantly ignores it, and he will touch when he's shamming for a case. But he is not particularly physical when he's simply being himself. John, and Mrs. Hudson, are the only minor exceptions John has noted.

John reaches without thinking and touches the front of Sherlock's shirt, fingers slipping between the buttons, high enough to feel the ragged, desperate beating of Sherlock's heart.

That's not normal, even given the stress of the evening. Sherlock's heart rate should have lowered by now. But his breathing _is _calm and he doesn't look like he's in any kind of physical distress. Mental duress, perhaps, but it's hard to tell with Sherlock, who doesn't exactly adhere to regular standards of mental health in the first place.

John considers telling Anthea to take them to Saint Bart's instead of home. He'll even use himself as the excuse– anyone would be a bit shaken up by what's just happened to them. But the words don't come. Sherlock's hand tightens in spasms on John's jumper.

"Straight home," Sherlock says.

Anthea looks at John, who remains silent, and then back to Sherlock. "Of course."

Anthea clears her throat when they arrive at Baker Street. Sherlock practically pushes John out of the car, surging up just behind him so that their legs tangle and they stumble into the door of 221B Baker Street.

John opens his mouth to complain, but can't find the words. Of course, only an hour and half ago he'd been covered in explosives, and his voice had been someone else's, and he'd been willing to die if it meant Sherlock would live. Sherlock, who is now pushing John backwards so he doesn't break eye contact, into the flat and up the stairs.

John's not sure there _are_ words for what happened tonight. He'd been willing to die for things before, he'd joined the army after all. But _that _was not what _this _is.

He wonders, certainly not for the first time, just how he's managed to get so tangled up in Sherlock Holmes. He wishes he knew what it _meant_.

Sherlock shrugs his coat off, leaving it spread on the floor near the door, and begins pushing John's jumper off as well. John opens his mouth, then closes it again, letting the jumper fall from his body. Sherlock pauses, staring, as if making an important decision, then his hands are ripping at John's dress shirt as well, pulling until the buttons pop and he can throw it behind them, leaving John in only his undershirt.

Sherlock kicks his shoes off and John does the same, allowing Sherlock to continue pushing him backwards, until the backs of his legs hit the sofa and he falls down onto it, the breath rushing out of his lungs.

For a long moment he stares up at Sherlock, caught in the intense madness of his gaze. He's half expecting Sherlock to crawl into his lap, the way he's behaving.

Instead, Sherlock lets out a long, shuddering breath and collapses onto the opposite side of the couch, curling up like a cat. The sudden loss of contact leaves John shivering. He reaches out at the same time Sherlock moves and tucks his feet up against John's legs. John's hand falls on his ankle and wraps around it.

John's head falls back without his permission, adrenaline giving way to exhaustion. He turns his head so that he can keep an eye on Sherlock and finds Sherlock staring back from beneath tousled curls.

They fall asleep.

When he wakes up, with no idea how many hours have passed, Sherlock has turned around, his head on John's lap, breath warm on John's stomach. His hand has found its way under John's shirt and is curled against the bare skin of his hip.

"Sherlock?" he tries to ask, but it's little more than a rough groan.

Sherlock sits up in alarm anyway, eyes wild and unfocused, even as they bore into John's.

"I'm going to kill him for even thinking of touching you," Sherlock says, as if he's just answered an impossible question and he's waiting for John to applaud his brilliance. It is_ exactly _that tone.

Then he flops back down into John's lap with a dramatic huff, hand taking its previous position on his hip. He's asleep again before John can even think of a response.

John stuffs the Union Jack pillow behind his head and closes his eyes. One hand is buried in Sherlock's hair, the other falls over his chest.

Sherlock mumbles something incomprehensible and curls in tighter.

The next morning they do not talk about it- in fact, John does not speak at all, preferring the quiet- but Sherlock's full attention is on John for the entire day, watching him as if he's an experiment that is just about to yield results. John considers going outside, goes so far as to put his shoes on, but Sherlock sits up like a startled cat and glares at John's shoes. John admits to himself that the weather looks a bit spotty and he'd rather catch up on reading anyway and removes them. Sherlock curls back up into the corner of the couch.

John wanders through the sitting room and the kitchen and then repeats the circuit. Sherlock is relaxed but alert, bright eyes watching every movement. John wanders out of sight for a moment, really just a second, and when he returns Sherlock is half off the couch and looking in his direction.

After that, John makes them tea, gathers a few books and his laptop, and makes himself comfortable on the sofa beside Sherlock.

Sherlock waits exactly five minutes and then curls himself around John, head tucked under the doctor's chin. John offers no complaint. Mostly because it's very reassuring, after the night they had, to have Sherlock underfoot. It is also very odd, Sherlock not being the touchy type after all. And with them not _actually_ being a couple.

Late in the afternoon, closer to evening, with the sun sinking low in the sky, Mrs. Hudson brings up tea.

John is dozing, more asleep than awake. Sherlock is turning the pages of the book that is still resting in John's lax hands. He lifts his head from John's shoulder for the first time in hours.

"Here's a bite to eat, dear. The Detective Inspector phoned earlier to check in, said you weren't answering your phones. He told me all about what that horrible man did. Is John all right, dear? He's looking terribly pale," Mrs. Hudson whispers.

John thinks that perhaps he should wake up and answer so the poor woman doesn't worry. But he is so tired and it's as if he still expects Moriarty's words to come out if he opens his mouth. It occurs to him, in his hazy sleep state, that he has said nothing in the last twenty-four hours except Sherlock's name, not since they left the pool.

"Quiet, Mrs. Hudson, you'll wake him. He's in shock." Sherlock's tone is clipped as usual, but there's an underlying tone that John can't quite identify.

"Of course, of course. I've made some soup. See that you both eat. And that can't be comfortable. Take him to bed, Sherlock, he'll get a terrible crick in his neck that way."

"Mrs. Hudson!" he snaps in a vicious whisper.

She makes an exasperated noise and then there are the sounds of the door closing and her careful footsteps down the stairs.

"It's quite all right if you don't want to speak, John," Sherlock says, after a long quiet moment that wakes John more thoroughly than Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock bickering.

John opens his eyes. Sherlock is exactly where he has been most of the day, only his head is raised and he is looking at John, so close that when John inhales it is Sherlock's breath he's taking in.

"You realize, logically, that your voice is your own again?"

John's head moves, a minute shake he doesn't even mean to make.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. And John remembers what he'd said in the early morning hours, that he would kill Moriarty for touching John.

"Well, you are a mostly logical man of more than moderate intelligence. You'll realize it soon." Sherlock sounds quite sure, but the look on his face seems uncertain, an expression John is not used to seeing on the other man.

"Sherlock," John says, trying to be reassuring. But even John can hear how robotic he sounds. _This is quite the turn up isn't it, Sherlock._ He shudders. Sherlock's arm around his shoulder tightens.

"Try it again," the detective demands.

John swallows. He's not sure he can. He shakes his head.

"Nonsense. Try again."

"Sherlock," John says, and yes- yes, that sounds more like him.

Sherlock's lips quirk. "Perhaps you should tell me I'm brilliant, you never seem to have a problem with that."

John can't help it, he grins. What a shallow prig. "Sherlock," the grin dies on his face and he asks in a painful rush, "Why didn't you run?"

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock says with a scowl.

"I mean it, why?" Because the answer suddenly seems very important.

"Because he had you. And you aren't his." The _you're mine _goes unsaid and still somehow leaves John reeling.

"Right," he breathes.

"Exactly." Sherlock puts his head back on John's shoulder and straightens the book in John's hand. "It's good, you're sounding like yourself again," he murmurs.

"What... what are we going to do about him, Sherlock?"

Sherlock doesn't answer for a long time, instead he turns the pages one after the other until finally John puts his hand over the book.

"I already told you," Sherlock says. He sounds as cold and determined as he did earlier. "You needn't concern yourself with it. Mycroft's spies are already searching. I will get the homeless network on it and then I'll get rid of him."

"Just going to kill the bloke, then?"

Sherlock pulls away to sit at the opposite end of the couch and John immediately misses his warmth. He catches himself halfway to reaching for Sherlock and shoves his hands in his lap. He honestly doesn't know what's wrong with him.

"I've told you, twice now, that I have every intention of ending James Moriarty's life. The game was fun, for a while, and he _is_ clever, I'll give him that." Sherlock goes quiet and thoughtful. He looks at John, studying his face. "Too clever. And he shouldn't have assumed you were a piece to put into play."

"Sherlock," John whispers.

"I don't have friends. Caring is distracting and annoying and frankly boring. But you... _are_ my friend. And that means you are not part of the game. To have a game, one needs rules. He broke them. So I will no longer play."

"You're going to kill a man? Because of me?"

Sherlock looks genuinely puzzled, light eyes widening. "You killed a man for me within a day of meeting me. I've known you for months now. Why shouldn't I be willing to kill a man for you? I'm perfectly capable."

Only Sherlock could sound indignant that someone thought him incapable of murder. And of course Sherlock is right. John had killed that cab driver after barely knowing Sherlock for more than a day. But John was a soldier and had killed before. And the cabbie was a murderer and had also killed before. And while Moriarty has killed plenty of innocent people John's not sure Sherlock ever has.

He thinks for a moment of Donovan's words to him that first night. That one day Sherlock would get bored and investigating murders wouldn't be good enough anymore. She couldn't have been more wrong. Sherlock Holmes might kill, but it won't be out of boredom. It will be because John Watson is _his_ and someone else dared to touch him. It's almost funny. It's mostly terrifying. And it is completely and utterly _reassuring_.

John is not gay, he doesn't think. He and Sherlock are not shagging, of that he's certain. But looking at Sherlock, in the dark of their flat, John realizes that he has never loved someone the way he loves Sherlock. And he's suddenly quite sure that Sherlock has never loved anyone at all, until John Watson.

"I need a shower," John says. It is suddenly impossible to be so close to Sherlock and not touch. And he cannot touch until he has had the time to process what he's just realized.

Sherlock's mouth thins in displeasure. John waits for him to say something, but Sherlock just frowns, because there is no rational reason for him to protest. And John knows that Sherlock does not do well with anything that has no logic to it.

John is very fast about his shower. He feels lightheaded and the hot water and steam are making him nauseous, so even had he wanted to he wouldn't have stayed in long. When he gets out of the shower, Sherlock is opening the washroom door, a towel in one hand and John's sleepwear in the other. John takes the towel and says nothing. Sherlock turns away and John dries off. He's barely hung up the towel when Sherlock thrusts his clothes at him.

He looks up and meets Sherlock's gaze in the mirror. John doesn't look away, he doesn't even blush as Sherlock takes John in from feet to head. John watches Sherlock as Sherlock watches him dress, an unfamiliar warmth in his expression.

They don't speak.

John leaves the bathroom and heads immediately for his bedroom, where he crawls into cool, clean sheets and rolls over. Sherlock steps carefully into the room and John barely hears his footsteps as he makes his way to the bed. He slides under the blankets with John, wrapping his long, wiry body around his.

"Sherlock,"

Sherlock hides his face against the back of John's neck. "You don't mind." As if the fact that John isn't tossing him out on his ear is the only consideration.

"What are you doing?"

"Lying down."

"Why?"

"I'm_ tired_," Sherlock answers.

"You never sleep this much," John says quietly.

Sherlock scoffs, breath warm on John's neck. "The last day was rather stressful. I can't fight biology forever. And I might as well sleep while I can."

"And you're in my bed, why?"

Sherlock stiffens behind him, but does not move away. "I'm certain you know why. But I was under the impression you didn't want to discuss this."

"What's that?"

Sherlock sighs. "Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of me. Before _you,_" said as if John were a disease one could catch, "such a threat would have been impossible. Seeing you covered in semtex I realized it _is_ possible. We both know my intelligence and intellect are far above the average person's, and until now I'd thought myself above petty emotional entanglements, but seeing you in explosives, seeing those marks on your chest, I was reduced to... I was not thinking practically or rationally." Lips press against the back of John's neck, just the slightest pressure. "I never understood people doing completely irrational things because they care about someone."

John closes his eyes. "And now?"

"I would burn all of London to keep you safe, John. And even I know that is very _not good_. Certainly not rational. I would burn myself to keep you safe, if I didn't know that would destroy you as well."

John closes his eyes, Sherlock's words aching like a punch to the stomach. It's true, though, losing Sherlock would destroy John. He shakes his head, but there's no denying it. Not to himself, certainly not to Sherlock.

How on earth is it that he's been slowly falling in love with the mad man he shares a flat with and somehow hasn't noticed?

_But it's more than love, isn't it_, he thinks, _it's_ everything. It's a purpose, a fight, a new war. It's companionship and the most unlikely friendship. An entirely new life. And all of that is wrapped up in Sherlock. John is not just broken from war, Afghanistan is not the only reason he followed Sherlock out the door that first night. There has always been something inside John, something unsettled and _unsatisfied_. It was why he joined the armed forces in the first place.

And Sherlock had seen that, had responded to it and nurtured it, in his own way. That part of himself that John had always hidden, even in Afghanistan, Sherlock had embraced and thrilled in.

"I don't want you to do that," John finally says, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

Sherlock tightens himself around John, one leg over John's thigh, one hand settling on John's stomach. His chin digs sharply into John's collarbone, but John doesn't mind.

"Burn yourself. Or London," John finishes.

"I won't. You wouldn't be happy with me if I did. Because you _care_. But I won't have to because as I've said," Sherlock sounds _so _impatient, "I'm going to take care of James Moriarty. Everyone will know better than to touch you."

John pulls Sherlock's forearms tighter around him. Sherlock makes a low, content sound and every muscle goes loose and lax. He is a human blanket draped halfway over John, skin cool and smooth to the touch.

John really is tired, and although he dozed most of the evening away, even though there are a million other things he wants to discuss with Sherlock, he finds his eyes falling closed.

"You're resting temperature is higher than most," Sherlock says against his skin.

"Mmmm."

"You know I've never engaged in any type of relationship before. Physical or otherwise. I never had an interest in doing so. Before you, that is. It seemed like such a waste of energy. Sleeping and touching and why would I want to exchange bodily fluids with someone else or-"

"You've done very well, up until now. Shut up. Go to sleep. We'll talk all about you being a virgin and how I'm not gay in the morning," John says.

Sherlock is very still and quiet for a long time, long enough that John is mostly asleep when the detective whispers, "But you do want this?" with more trepidation in his tone than John has ever heard before.

"Don't be an idiot," John murmurs back.

Sherlock relaxes and shoves his face against John's neck.

In the morning, Sherlock is gone and the bed is cold where he had been laying, but John can hear him downstairs. He rolls over and flings his arm out across the empty space. The bed smells like expensive cologne and chemicals. Not chlorine, though. _Thank god._ Everything had smelled like chlorine in the first couple of hours after the pool. No, his bed smells like Sherlock. And that is just fine.

John closes his eyes and breathes in deeply and smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two**

During the next two weeks Sherlock turns down two cases, slams the door in Mycroft's face five times, refuses to eat, takes his showers only if John is at least in the bathroom with him, and invades John's bed at night. He also goes to the Tesco with John when they finally run out of food and John's made the point that one of them, at least, actually needs food to live. And that might be the most disturbing of these new developments.

Sherlock walks so close John trips, twice, and uses the excuse to hold onto John's arm for longer than is even a little bit necessary. John glares. Honestly, he should have known that Sherlock would go from nothing to everything. Except of course, that he hasn't even kissed John. And John's beginning to wonder if Sherlock even thinks about that kind of thing. If that's what he actually wants from John. It all gives John a headache.

Sixteen days after the pool incident John is woken by Sherlock shouting from downstairs. He's up in a heartbeat, pulling on jeans and a fresh undershirt, a jumper, stopping to brush his teeth with alarming speed. He stumbles his way down the stairs, heart hammering, blood singing.

Sherlock is at the door, coat on, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"Lestrade called."

"Right then, let's go," he says, and reaches past Sherlock for his coat, relieved that Sherlock is finally behaving like himself. Sherlock's hand catches his face. John freezes, staring up at him.

"You've got toothpaste," he says, then he wipes at the corner of John's mouth with his thumb.

John's face flushes warmly. Then Sherlock shoves his thumb into mouth and sucks and John's mouth goes dry. "New brand," Sherlock says.

John stares, dumbfounded.

Sherlock meets his stunned gaze for a second longer, and then he's moving again, pulling John's coat on, pushing him down the stairs, a hand always somewhere on John's body. John stops them both at the door.

Sherlock's smile is quick and sharp and genuine.

"Sherlock, what exactly is-"

"No time now, John. Puzzles to solve, killers to find!" And then Sherlock's off and flagging down a cab, and John has no choice but to follow after.

"Wait, killers? You think there's more than one?" And just like that, John's mind is on the case as well.

It is immediately clear why Sherlock couldn't ignore this case. Triple murder, locked room, no murder weapon, no physical evidence. Sherlock gets the text from Lestrade and as he describes the case John is surprised at how subdued he seems. This is the sort of thing that would normally have him jumping about and shouting as though it were Christmas. John has seen him do exactly that over less.

There's no point is asking what's going on with Sherlock, though, John knows he won't get an answer. Not now, when Sherlock is already elaborating on two different theories and he hasn't even seen the crime scene yet.

Lestrade orders everyone out as soon as John and Sherlock arrive. He looks, for a moment, as if he's considering sending John out as well, but Sherlock raises an eyebrow that clearly says he won't let that happen.

"Who are they? Brothers?" John asks. The victims are three men, all of an age with John himself, with similar builds

Lestrade catches Sherlock's arm and gestures to the corner of the room. Sherlock follows the Detective Inspector over, with a brief raise of eyebrows at John.

John shrugs and kneels down to look at the bodies. He is immediately struck by the smell of burnt flesh. It is not, by any stretch, the first time he has smelled such a thing.

One of the victims' mouths has been sewn shut, another's eyes have been plucked out, and the last is missing his ears. One with the word _dance_ burnt into his chest, one with the word_ with_, and one with the word _me_. And each one with a precise bullet hole through the forehead. They were obviously still alive when they were dismembered and branded, but there's no blood on the floor. So they were moved here.

He loses himself in a doctor's aloof mentality, cataloging information and data to pass to Sherlock when he and Lestrade are done talking. He's done before the other men are through, and that leaves him in the immediate present with the bodies. It's harder to be impersonal when he's not examining them for cause of death or further evidence of how and why they were put here.

John has seen gruesome deaths and horrifying injuries. War accustomed him to it. But this is... he stands up on unsteady legs and moves away from the bodies. Sherlock is, surprisingly, at his side just as he leans against the wall.

"It's okay, I'm okay."

"Go outside. I'll be there momentarily."

John nods and makes his way to the door, closing it behind him and sucking in a shuddering breath.

He's put together by the time Sherlock and Lestrade join him.

"You all right, John?" Lestrade asks, patting his shoulder.

John nods, but Sherlock catches his eyes, reading in them all that John isn't saying, and frowns.

"I'm fine," John says, trying to reassure him. "Just been a while since I saw that kind of violence."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, just takes off down the hall, firing out his conclusions to Lestrade. John follows close behind.

"What does that message mean? Dance with me? Who would do that?" John asks, and he doesn't miss the way Lestrade shoots a look at Sherlock, but Sherlock merely starts to lecture on the history of branding bodies and how far the sniper would have to be to get that kind of shot off.

Before John realizes it, Sherlock's got him more concerned with where the men were murdered and how they ended up in a locked room than with the burns on their chests.

The next seventy-two hours see John chasing after Sherlock through London, Sherlock getting shot at, and John getting into a brawl in the streets. They break the window of a pub, and Sherlock nearly gets run over by a car. They get separated twice, and Sherlock leaves John purposefully once, on this last night, sending him in the opposite direction of the detective himself.

John ends up taking a tire iron to the back of the head and falling into the Thames, not all that far from the London Eye.

And it is here that Sherlock finds John again, dragging him out of the water, shouting in his ear as if he's not right next to it. And honestly, John's head hurts too much for this, the lights too bright for his eyes. As exciting as life might be with Sherlock Holmes, it's most certainly going to throw John into an early grave.

"How did you manage a run-in with the murderer? You weren't supposed to cross paths with him!" Sherlock snaps, turning John over on his side and whacking his back until he coughs up Thames water and chokes on oxygen.

He tries to make sense of Sherlock's words, but it's hard to focus on much other than how cold it is and how his head is throbbing.

"John?" Why is Sherlock being so bloody loud?

"Shh, quiet. Sherlock, quiet." But it comes out slurred and drunken even to his own ears.

Sherlock's fingers run through the back of his hair and John flinches when they touch the cut just at his hairline. Sherlock brings his fingers to his nose and breathes in. "I was sure I'd sent you _away_ from him."

There are sirens in the distance, and then closer, then more shouting, the kind that makes John's fuzzy mind recall sand and firefights and burning sun. Sherlock gets up with frantic speed, feet slipping on the wet ground where John's been pulled out of the river, and a gunshot goes off. There are screams from the crowds near the Eye. John gets himself most of the way to his feet and stumbles. Lestrade catches him before his knees can hit the ground and the sirens are suddenly much closer.

"Easy, John. Easy. Ambulance is coming," Lestrade says quietly, trying to get John to sit back down.

But there had been a gunshot, and Sherlock's not here, and John's trying hard to figure out what that might mean.

"Sherlock?" he questions. Lestrade frowns, shaking his head. Then his eyes catch on something past John's shoulder.

Arms, _familiar_ arms, come around John and lift him to his feet. He sways, but there's a tall, thin, solid body behind him, and he rests against it.

"I've got him," Sherlock snarls, possessive.

"Y'okay? Gunshots," John mutters.

Sherlock's brow furrows, and he leans in close to John as if trying to hear him.

Lestrade puts a hand on John's head, trying to peer into his eyes. "Is it a concussion? Can you understand him?"

Sherlock jerks John backwards, leaning past his shoulder to growl in Lestrade's face. "I said _I've got him._" And Lestrade takes a wary step back, hands half raised.

John's head falls back against Sherlock's shoulder, and he looks up at his flat mate. "Be nice," he chastises, but he's not sure it comes out properly.

Sherlock frowns down at him. "You need a doctor. He's correct. I can't understand anything you're saying, and your pupils are dilated."

John tries to nod, but his head hurts. He mumbles out something that's supposed to be "Yes, that's fine," but it just has Sherlock scowling harder.

When the medics finally get there, Sherlock is deadly quiet in ordering them around and nearly violent about keeping their hands off John, getting John up into the back of the ambulance and on the stretcher himself before letting anyone else look at him.

"Sherlock?" a voice calls, calm and collected, amongst the chatter of police.

Is that Mycroft? John tries to lift his head but the pain is too great.

Sherlock looks torn, but John isn't surprised when Sherlock leaves. He squeezes John's hand, once, and whispers something John doesn't hear.

He loses consciousness before they even close the ambulance doors.

Raised voices wake him. Or rather, one raised voice and one calm, utterly detached voice.

John blinks against the bright lights, and the room blurs for a moment before his vision clears. Mycroft is sitting, one leg elegantly crossed with an umbrella resting across his knee, in a chair in the corner of the room. Sherlock is pacing, all manic energy and dramatic hand motions. It's very hard for John to focus on what they're actually saying. His head throbs and his ears have a slight ringing.

Sherlock notices he's awake first, and he stops in his pacing so fast he nearly topples over. He glances over at Mycroft, who raises his eyebrows before rising from the chair and leaving the room.

John opens his mouth to ask what's going on, but Sherlock is suddenly very close, his hands resting on either side of John's head.

"You've suffered a grade three concussion," Sherlock says finally, after a long time spent looking into John's eyes.

John frowns. He doesn't remember that. He doesn't remember how they got here, or even where here is, or why. The last thing he remembers is heading off towards the Eye of London on Sherlock's order to head off their killer and suddenly running into the man. He had said something... but... John can't remember. And then Sherlock had been angry at Lestrade...? He shakes his head, trying to put the memories in place.

"You don't remember," Sherlock says flatly. He looks conflicted. His eyes dart away from John and towards the door. In his pocket, his phone goes off.

"Didn't catch him, then?" John asks, because he remembers that part, when he thinks hard enough. Three murders. Maiming and branding and... and details that are very fuzzy in John's head right now.

The muscle in Sherlock's cheek twitches. "No, not quite."

John smiles. "Well, go on then. I'm fine. Concussion, you said? Not unusual that I'm having trouble remembering. How long are they keeping me?"

"Forty-eight hours."

John sputters. "Forty-eight hours? That's ridiculous."

Sherlock's face is quite serious, oddly so. His hands leave John's pillow to cup his face, tracing the line of John's jaw. John goes very still.

"You took a bad hit to the head, John. It's very important that you stay here for at least forty-eight hours. Mycroft's got it all in hand. I'll be back as soon as I can."

There is _everything_ wrong with this situation, from how long they're trying to keep John here to the fact that Sherlock is allowing Mycroft to be involved, but John is having serious trouble putting it all together. He's sure he'd have figured it out by now if only his head didn't hurt so badly and the lights weren't so bright.

"Sherlock," he starts. And then stops.

Because Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips to John's. And this... is a first. He lingers, for just a moment, tongue pressing gently on John's lower lip until John gives in and opens his mouth on a sigh. Sherlock tastes and takes, and curls his tongue around John's, and the sound he makes is heartbreaking.

It's over too fast.

Sherlock looks pained. His hold on John's face becomes crushing. "Be careful. I will be back."

"_You _be careful," John whispers back, suddenly very worried.

And then Sherlock is gone in a whirl of black coat, and John is alone, more confused than ever. And deep down, in the part of his gut he knows better than to ignore, he is terrified. Madly, blindingly terrified.

Mycroft slips back into the room, Anthea behind him with her blackberry as always, but she stands as some odd sort of sentinel at the door.

"I'm sure my brother explained the hospital wants to keep you for at least forty-eight hours. It was quite the blow to the head you took, Doctor Watson." Mycroft takes out the morning news and opens to the middle.

"You're staying?" Because even with a concussion John knows this is odd.

"I did promise Sherlock I'd keep a personal eye on you. And for now, at least, I've the time. Get some rest, John. You'll need your strength."

It is very hard to stay awake. His eyes feel gritty and heavy. "Where is he going? What's happening?" He looks over at his bedside and sees a button for releasing pain medication. And he thinks... _pain medication? Do I need pain medication...? _He certainly hasn't touched it, but it was well within Sherlock's reach a moment ago. "He drugged me?" He stares at Mycroft and tries to stay awake.

For one moment, something like pity crosses Mycroft's face, then he says, as blandly as possible, "He did. Are you terribly surprised? It's no matter. He'll return."

"From where?" John slurs.

Mycroft does not answer.

John's eyes close and he is asleep again.

John is restless, when they don't have him knocked out with pain medication that he's quite sure he doesn't _need_. He'd wonder why they're insisting on keeping him so long, except that he's fairly certain both Holmes brothers have arranged that he not be let out. He can't remember what the killer had said before hitting him, or even how the man had got the drop on him, and some of the case details are still fuzzy, but that isn't all that important. His headache is gone, his speech is fine, and he's keeping solid food down. There's no reason for them to be keeping him. So yes, he concludes, it must be under Mycroft's orders and at Sherlock's request.

By the time they let him sign his release papers and change into his own clothes he's already thrown a bed pan at a nurse, ripped out his IV, and tossed a cup of water in Mycroft's face. Lestrade has taken over babysitting duty as a result, and every time he opens his mouth John very nearly snarls.

It's obvious whatever was going on with those murders is more than it seemed, just as obvious is that Sherlock is off doing something dangerous _without_ John to watch his back, and these idiots seem to think keeping John in the dark is a good idea.

Worst, though, is that Sherlock isn't answering his phone or his texts. Sherlock _always _answers his texts, and he wouldn't just shut his phone off.

Mycroft is a dead end, not giving John any answers as to what Sherlock is doing or where he is. Lestrade keeps insisting he knows nothing, and John's about had it with everyone.

The elder Holmes does send him a text the day after he returns to 221B from hospital.

_I've been asked to relay the following: "I will be home soon, taking care of a problem." - MH_

_What the bloody hell does that mean? - JW_

_I'm not at liberty to say. Best to keep this quiet. - MH_

And it doesn't matter what Mycroft is or is not at liberty to say because John, once he calms down and stops seeing red, realizes that the only reason Sherlock would take off like this would be because of Moriarty. He should have realized it sooner, should have known the moment Sherlock took off without him. He really _is _an idiot.

Following that line of thought leads John to the fact that the last case they'd been working must have been connected somehow. And as if a switch has been turned on he remembers what the man had said, before he'd taken the tire iron to the back of his head.

"Gottle o'geer," whispered in his ear and then the hit to the head as he turned to face him.

And then he remembers the _dance with me _carved into those three men. And the victim's... their names... he'd never gotten their names. But they had looked a bit like him, hadn't they?

_I have a question about that last case._ He texts Lestrade.

_The Three Johns? You know I can't tell you where Sherlock is_. Comes the reply.

He takes in a desperate breath through his nose. Why hadn't he noticed, why hadn't he put it together? He's so stupid, he'd been so caught up in how Sherlock was behaving he hadn't even asked again. John. Their names were all _John_.

_Three Johns?_ He texts back, just to be sure he's putting the pieces together correctly.

_Shit. Look, Sherlock didn't want you knowing. You can't do anything about it now, so just stay out of it._

So. Moriarty then. Sherlock's off after Moriarty because he was behind the triple murder in the locked room and because he'd come after John, again. What had Sherlock said that night? After John was hit? Something about assuming John would be safe when he went off in the other direction. Meaning Sherlock had sent him off, not to waylay the killer, but to send John _away_ from the killer. Sherlock had known Moriarty was behind it.

Goddamn it.

John throws his tea cup towards the yellow smiling face still on the wall, and it shatters.

He writes, and then erases, several texts to Mycroft:

_Tell him to piss off, I've had it. -JW_

_I won't be here when, if, he gets back. -JW_

_Ask him why the bloody hell he didn't take me with him! - JW_

_Tell him to be safe. - JW_

_Tell him to come home. Now. Please. - JW_

_Tell him I've a bad feeling. -JW_

_Tell him I love him. - JW_

_Tell him I hate him. - JW_

_Tell me where the bloody hell he is, now. - JW_

In the end, John sends nothing. He goes onto his blog instead and invites Moriarty to take another swipe at him. Just let the sick, twisted little fucker come at John one more time. Sherlock won't have to kill him, John's going to torture him until he begs to die.

But nothing comes of it. Of course. Moriarty and Sherlock are now too busy playing their own little game for John Watson to count.

He storms into Mycroft's office the next morning and wrecks the place, knocking things off the desk and daring to break his umbrella, quietly threatening Mycroft with every form of torture he's familiar with until Mycroft has no choice but to call security. Even then they are not rough with him, as if they've been warned to be kind and considerate, and John is sorely tempted to punch one of them just to start a good row. He isn't bloody fragile; he just wants to know where the hell his friend has gone.

John spends the rest of the day and most of the night in the pub.

"Does he pay you for this?" John asks when Lestrade comes to collect him at last call.

Lestrade sighs. "For picking up a friend who's self-destructing? No. For picking up his little brother's... well... in his own way, I suppose he does." And John is not Sherlock; he cannot decipher the meaning of Lestrade's tone or the look on his face. And he is far too pissed to figure out what _little brother's... well_ is supposed to mean.

"He's gone after Moriarty," he says. Lestrade says nothing.

Lestrade pulls up outside 221B Baker Street and turns to meet John's eyes.

"Leave this one to him, John."

John doesn't answer. He gets out of the car and staggers his way to the door, into the flat, and up the stairs. He collapses onto the couch, pulls Sherlock's blue dressing down over his head, and passes out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Three**

Sherlock comes home almost two weeks later and says, "The game has changed. And take that blog post down, do you_ want_ to die?" Then he throws himself into his website and every message Moriarty has left there.

John doesn't speak to Sherlock, won't even look at him, for an entire week. Until one night his door opens at 3:43 in the morning and Sherlock crawls into bed beside him and curls himself around John.

John sighs. "You shouldn't have done that, run off like that. You know... you _know_ why. You can't just do that."

There is silence. Sherlock's lips press against the back of his neck.

"I'm still pissed at you."

He feels Sherlock nodding.

"Was it... never mind, of course it was. He got away...?" He knows the answer. If Sherlock had gotten Moriarty there wouldn't be this tension between them, this knowledge that they are still in danger, could still lose one another.

Sherlock rubs his forehead back and forth against John's shoulder.

"We'll find him," he assures Sherlock. And after a moment, he says, "You're utter rot at apologies."

Sherlock rolls him over and kisses him, hard and desperate. And John moans and kisses back, fingers tangling tightly in sweat damp curls. Sherlock may not have much experience but he makes up for it in a remarkable ability to learn. He sucks John's lower lip into his mouth, presses his tongue in and tastes. And it's all very... exquisite. They fit, Sherlock and John, in ways John had not dared to think of. John has always enjoyed a good snog, but it's never been like this. Never been so all encompassing that he loses himself completely. He could simply kiss Sherlock, and never do another thing, and be satisfied. Content, even. Possibly happy.

They kiss for hours. Until John's lips are swollen and sore, and Sherlock has sucked and licked bruises onto his shoulders and collarbone, and John has bitten a line of marks down that long neck. Sherlock's thigh is between his legs, applying just the right amount of pressure, and John thrusts up against him, not even realizing he's doing it until he's right on the edge of orgasm and then, Christ, he's-

Sherlock's lips leave his, breath washing over John's face as he gasps out, "John." And then shudders and shakes and thrusts down against John so hard it's nearly painful.

Immediately after, still breathing raggedly and clutching at John, Sherlock says, "You're beautiful, like that. Like stars, when you're about to come. I could study you for hours. Days."

"But I thought the stars were useless. You deleted stars. You deleted the whole solar system." And John's not being cheeky. He's genuinely concerned that Sherlock just compared him to the nighttime sky because he doesn't want Sherlock to delete him.

"No. Fine. Not the solar system, not the stars. You're beautiful like... my first magnifying glass, and my first chemistry set, the first crime scene I staggered onto, like the day I met you. I wouldn't delete you, John. I couldn't."

John nods because he doesn't have the words to respond to that.

They fall asleep, finally, as the sun is coming up, lips still mostly pressed together, arms and legs tangled.

But when they wake up, Sherlock is on edge again. He checks his phone and his website obsessively. Nothing calms him down. Mycroft stops by three times in the course of as many days and not once does Sherlock chase him out with his violin. They drink tea and wait until John leaves the room to say more than trite pleasantries, and they don't even bother to pretend they are doing otherwise. The only bit of normalcy John can cling to is that Molly seems to have a new body every few days, and Sherlock is more often than not willing to go down to Bart's to look at them.

But then Sherlock turns down two cases, and when Lestrade texts John instead, John finds that his phone goes missing.

John throws a strop about it and goes out for a walk. He is not unaware of Mycroft's men following him.

The thing is, John can deal with Sherlock's moods and his temper. He can deal with the danger and the tension of knowing that Moriarty is out there and getting ready to come at them again. He was a soldier, damn it, and he can take care of himself. It's that Sherlock is cutting John out that has John in such a fury.

He remembers being grabbed off the street and strapped with semtex, but that just makes him more furious. He _can_ take care of himself. Sherlock has no right to cut him out like this.

"You can't just leave me out of this," he tells Sherlock when he finally goes home.

Sherlock is sitting on the edge of his chair, staring across at John's empty one, with his hands pressed together, fingers to his lips. It takes him a long moment to focus on John himself.

"Of course," he says.

John scowls. "Don't placate me. I can take care of myself. Can take care of you, too, come to it. And this- this is not fine. You disappearing for two weeks without a word- _without a word, _Sherlock, you could have been dead- and now sneaking about with Mycroft. Mycroft? You- I- just, no. No. No more of it."

"John-"

"No! Damn it, Sherlock, I'm ser-"

"I don't know what game he's playing! I can't figure it out!" Sherlock shouts, drowning out John's ranting.

"Can't figure what out?" John asks.

"Not just his next move, John. The game! I don't even know what game he's playing! Is he that much better than I am?" He's up in a swirl of blue fabric, pacing past John in a fury.

"Of course not," John says automatically, not to placate Sherlock, but because it's a simple fact to him. John sits in his own chair. It's best to be out of Sherlock's path once he starts pacing this way.

"It used to be puzzles. Even when he took you, made it personal, it was still about the puzzle. Still within the rules. Prove how clever I am, no explosion. The plans."

John opens his mouth to argue that the plans had never been Moriarty's actual goal.

"No, no, _no_, John. It doesn't matter if he really wanted those plans. They were still the point of the puzzle. The game was still the same. And if it _was _a warning to stop coming after him then why come back? That murder was the first case we've been on since the pool and he orchestrated it with every intention of getting our attention. There's no logic to it."

"Right. Right, well he did seem rather... _changeable _at the time, yes? That was his word." John's brow furrows. Sherlock scowls at him. "So." John leaves alone the fact that Moriarty is insane and might not care one whit about Sherlock's version of rules and social niceties. "What did you find when you were gone?"

Sherlock waves a hand at him as if that is unimportant. But John's sure it is.

"Sherlock!"

"The woman had a note, boring, really. Meet me here or your John dies. But when I went there was nothing, just a burnt out old hospital. I left you with Mycroft and Lestrade because I figured he was trying to lure me away from you. I'm missing something. Something important, I always miss _something_." Sherlock closes his eyes tightly, hands fisted against his forehead.

John stands, carefully taking Sherlock's fists into his hands and unfolding them. Sherlock's eyes remain closed.

"Maybe," John licks his lower lip and takes in a deep breath, "maybe this is what he wants. You. Wound up even though there's no threat."

"As long as he's out there he will be a threat. You heard him that night."

"Sherlock."

His eyes open, bright gray and wild, manic, moving over John's face as if reading every line and wrinkle and tick. "_John._" And the way he says it is breathless and needy. John had never heard Sherlock speak like that until after the pool.

John pulls Sherlock forward and kisses him, soft and chaste. "I'm right here."

"Evidence would support that theory," Sherlock responds, drolly, but his hand twists in John's jumper.

"Just think it through, Sherlock. You'll figure it out. Have you run out of patches?"

Sherlock frowns. "Yes. Days ago."

"I'll run to Tesco's, grab you some. We need milk for tea."

Sherlock surges up and moves towards the door. "I'll go with you."

And this stops John. He blinks rapidly, staring at Sherlock "You'll what?"

"Go with you." He's got his scarf wrapped around his neck and his coat already pulled up one arm.

"You aren't dressed," John argues lamely. He'd assumed Sherlock had gotten over this particular issue, that he would go back to avoiding shopping like a plague. Not that John is entirely sure Sherlock _would_ avoid a plague. But still...

Sherlock looks down at himself, hesitates- the vain peacock- and then shrugs. "I'm not running about nude, so I don't see why it matters."

John stares. "You're not starting this up again."

"What?" Sherlock snaps.

"I can go to Tesco's. You know as well as I do that Mycroft's got men on us, Lestrade's got men on us. I'm fairly certain only the Queen herself is as well watched as we are right now. I'll be right back. You stay here. Think. Boil some thumbs, I think you left some in the veg bin."

Sherlock is scowling, but John knows he's getting through. Sherlock, caught unawares by sentiment and emotion, is still a new version of Sherlock to John, but John is very... adaptable. And handling this Sherlock is not so very different as handling all the other sides of him.

"There's no reason to boil the thumbs. And they're in the bin for a reason, they need to stay there." He removes his coat and hangs it back up, slowly and carefully unwrapping his scarf from around his neck.

John shrugs into his own coat, looking up into Sherlock's face. Sherlock is beautiful, John has known this from the moment he met him. But sometimes it strikes him unawares and his breath is actually knocked out of him by it. Right now, Sherlock's expression is a horrible study of worry and fury and frustration and something... softer... something like affection. The light of the room is cutting sharp edges across his impossible cheekbones, and his eyes are too-bright and seeing too deeply into John.

"Take my card," he says, slipping it into John's pocket. And then he wraps his very soft blue scarf around John's neck, adjusting it just so. "It's cold."

The scarf smells like Sherlock. Like chemicals and expensive cologne and the sweat of a chase on a cold London day. John narrowly avoids nuzzling his nose into it. Sherlock looks unduly pleased at having John wrapped up in something of his. No, not pleased precisely. Possessive and... satisfied. John should have known Sherlock would be like a tomcat marking its territory. He shakes his head.

Sherlock turns on his heel and hurries away. John leaves the flat and heads to Tesco.

When he comes back, Sherlock is gone from the living room.

"Sherlock?"

The blue house coat is in a rumpled pile on the floor, his overcoat gone, but his shoes are still next to the door.

John puts the bags in the kitchen, trying very hard to stay calm. The milk tips over in the bag, sending the nicotine patches to the floor.

Sherlock's room is empty. The bathroom is empty as well He goes up the stairs.

He finds Sherlock, finally and just when panic was starting to win out over rational thought, in John's own bedroom. He's sprawled all across the bed, fully and smartly dressed now, his coat is on, bare feet brushing the floor.

"Sherlock, Christ, are you trying to kill me?" Silence answers him, but he can feel Sherlock's eyes on him. "What's going on?"

"I've to go to St. Bart's. Molly texted. There's a body."

John frowned. "So why're you on my bed, then?"

He's not overly concerned with the change in Sherlock's mood or interest. Sherlock is also a bit changeable, and he needs the distraction that a body to work on would offer.

"I was waiting for you."

"You want me to come with you? I could have just met you." He turns back to the door. "C'mon then, I know you hate waiting to get your hands on a new body.

"No, John. I'm going alone. I was just waiting for you.

John feels a prickle of unease on his scalp, and says, softly, "You never wait for me."

"I was trying to be... thoughtful. Given the nature of our conversation before you left, I thought you wouldn't appreciate my running off without warning."

"Could have texted," John said, knowing he was missing something. Something important, but not knowing what.

"John," Sherlock snaps, clearly sick of trying to explain himself. "Just stay here. I'll be back in an hour. In an hour."

"You... ah, you don't want me to go with you?" Because Sherlock's usually quite keen on John following him everywhere, and he _has_ been nearly obsessive about it since he got back from wherever he'd chased Moriarty to- his desire to go to Tesco an obvious example.

"No. I won't be long."

"Yes, all right."

Sherlock stands from the bed and moves to sweep past John, but John grabs at his sleeve. Sherlock stops dead, looking down at him with eyes that are burning brightly.

"Sherlock," he says, plaintively. He hates the tone in his voice, but every instinct he has is telling him something is wrong.

Sherlock ducks his head, lips pressing hard against John's, tasting, and taking, consuming.. John can't_ breathe_. His hands grasp Sherlock's shoulders as the other man pushes him back towards the bed until they both fall down onto it. The weight of Sherlock's taller body knocks the breath out of John. He pushes Sherlock's coat off his shoulders with desperate, shaking hands. Sherlock pulls away, hair wild, and throws the coat down on the floor.

"John," he groans, sounding desperate.

He pulls off John's jumper, rucks his undershirt under his arms, licking up the very center of John's chest before pressing open mouthed kisses over John's heart. It is unnervingly sweet, for Sherlock. Then he presses his teeth into the flesh and sucks, leaving a dark mark on John's skin before he finally lifts his head and meets John's eyes.

John is not quite sure how they got from Sherlock leaving to Sherlock above him, all around him, hands everywhere, _lips _everywhere, but he can't think straight long enough to ask, to protest.

Sherlock's fingertips spread wide over John's neck, pressing gently, sweetly. His nails scrape lightly over sensitive skin, and John gasps for breath.

"Your neck is sensitive," Sherlock says, voice so very dark and rough and like nothing John has heard before.

Those fingers trail down his collarbone, over his shoulders, cupping around the muscles of his arms. "Still fit. Your shoulders, your arms." Sherlock kisses his left shoulder.

His right hand moves down, brushes lightly over John's stomach. John trembles. The touch very nearly tickles. But Sherlock is being so careful, as if John were a delicate, volatile experiment.

"Soft stomach, though. Fell out of shape with the injury. But so warm. You're always so warm, John." Sherlock's voice is shaking, his hands are shaking.

John tangles his fingers in Sherlock's hair and tries to make him look up, but Sherlock stubbornly refuses. He moves his head lower, until his cheek is pressed against John's skin. His breath is hot and uneven, his hair soft. John closes his eyes, trying to memorize this sensation.

"Sherlock," John begins. And he wants to say _what's wrong _and _you're frightening me_ and _leave my tummy alone, you wanker_. But what he says is, "I thought you had to go?"

Sherlock works John's buckle and zip open, long fingers pushing past his waistband and into his pants.

"It can wait. Just a little longer."

"Oh, god," John moans, cock slowly filling, hardening, just at the light touch of Sherlock's fingertips. "But... the-the work," he stutters out.

Sherlock makes a humming noise against John. "You_ are_ the work, John. The case I can't solve."

His hand wraps around John's cock, and John pushes his hips up into it.

"Tell me," Sherlock gasps out, pressing his hips down on John's thigh, rubbing himself against John. "I've never. This isn't my..." Sherlock is shaking, breathless.

"Never?" John manages to ask.

"John." He sounds a bit more like himself, as if John is being deliberately slow. "I've never wanted to touch anyone, to be like this with anyone. But you. What is it about you? Tell me how to touch you."

And because John has no answer to the question, he follows the demand instead. "Just wrap your fingers around. Not too tight, yes. Like that. God, Sherlock, you can just... anything. _Anything_." And he means it, just the loose pumps of Sherlock's soft hands will be enough. "Let me, let me touch you."

Sherlock's hand tightens on John's cock, and John throws his head back. "I want to_ see _you. Like this. I can't observe if I... I'm already so distracted."

Sherlock kisses him again, hips rolling and John- all John can see or smell or hear is _Sherlock,_ and he loves him so much, and he is so frightened right now. For Sherlock. For both of them. But he can't say that, can't find the words for that, so he kisses him back instead, bites at his plush lips and licks into his mouth.

Sherlock tenses, going deathly still, hand tightening on John's cock. His hips jerk against John's thigh, once, twice, and then John feels the warmth of his release even through their clothing. His own cock throbs in sympathy, and then he's coming too, into Sherlock's palm, onto their skin pressed flush together.

Sherlock curls against John's side, hands still on his slowly softening cock, warm and comfortable. Intimate. He breathes hotly against John's neck, his lips press soft and warm kisses into his skin.

John turns his head and takes Sherlock's lips, hand tangling in his dark curls.

When Sherlock pulls away his face is unreadable. John uses the corner of his bed sheet to clean them both up. They kiss lazily for a few more moments.

"You've got a body," John reminds him gently. And that fear in the bottom of his own gut returns.

"I know," Sherlock responds, head resting on John's chest while John's fingers brush through his hair. "I'll need a change of trousers now as well."

John chuckles. "Yes, well. You should get on that."

"I don't want to leave you," Sherlock admits, not sounding like himself. He pushes up, sitting at the edge of the mattress with one hand clinging to John's shirt.

"Sherlock, what's really going on?" Even as he asks it he knows he shouldn't. He can see the mask Sherlock usually wears coming down over his face.

"What's going on is there's a body of a freshly drowned seventy-eight year old woman in the morgue and I'm not there." Sherlock stands, retrieving his coat from the floor.

"I can come with you," John offers.

"Nonsense, stay. I won't be gone long."

"It's a fresh body and Molly's letting you have your way with it. You'll be days," John says with a fond smile, eyes on the ceiling. When Sherlock says nothing he continues, "I've got your patches, by the way. Take some," John says, but it's to an empty room. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock is out the door and down the stairs. John sits up, trying to buckle his trousers and get off the bed. But he hears the other bedroom door and then Sherlock's tread down the stairs, before the final sound of the door to the flat slamming shut. "Right."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Four**

_What is wrong with Sherlock? -JW_

John texts, almost an hour later. And he hates to go over Sherlock's head, but the last couple of months have been... well, it's all been spinning out of control, really. He and Sherlock. The Moriarty problem. Sherlock disappearing, John being targeted. It's just too much. And John knows Sherlock well enough to know that something is very wrong right now.

_I'm afraid I have many answers to that question, none of which is the one you are looking for. - M_

_Right. Unhelpful. I am worried about him. -JW_

_Aren't we always? I'll come round, we will have tea. - M_

John does not make tea. And Mycroft does look genuinely disappointed in that. He sits down in John's chair, never in Sherlock's, John has noted, and folds his hands over the end of his umbrella. The look he gives John is coolly expectant.

"Where is he, really? And what's he getting himself into? You kept it from me the last time he ran off and that is not happening again. I mean it, Mycroft."

"You worry too much, Doctor Watson. Perhaps we can go out and grab a bite to eat. I'm famished, myself." His head is tilted at an odd angle, looking toward the door, though his eyes are on John's.

Mycroft's phone buzzes before John even opens his mouth to answer, and he begs John's pardon with a silent look before picking it up.

"Are you certain? Yes, of course. I'll be there... momentarily. I shall. Thank you." He looks up at John, a peculiar and uncertain look in his dark eyes. In the street there is a surging sound of sirens.

John's heart sinks.

"Sherlock," he whispers. And knows, k_nows, _that all that noise and chaos is centered around his flatmate. "What's happened?" he asks Mycroft.

"Best you come with me now."

"Best you tell me what the bloody fuck is going on." His voice is very quiet and very calm, he _feels_ very quiet and very calm. He's felt the same way before. On the battlefield and in an abandoned prep school, and then again in the changing room of an empty pool.

"John." Mycroft's umbrella taps against his foot, gaze steady on John's. When John doesn't react, he repeats the tapping, saying, "I do think it would be best if you came with me." The umbrella taps again.

John takes in a sharp breath, suddenly understanding. Morse code, Mycroft is tapping out Morse code. W-A-T-C-H-E-D. _Watched._

"Fine," John sighs with resignation.

He doesn't speak until they are safely in the car.

"You going to tell me what that's about?"

Mycroft pauses thoughtfully, then answers, "We have somewhere to be."

"Somewhere..." John closes his eyes, mouth pressed into a firm, thin line. When he opens them Mycroft's face has not changed a hair. "Are you kidding me? Sherlock went to Saint Bart's and that... that does seem to be where all those police are headed."

"So it would seem," Mycroft answers and the car lurches into movement. Away from Saint Bart's.

"Where are you going?" Does Mycroft seriously think he is going to kidnap John right now? "Turn the bloody car around."

"That's not possible at the moment. Sherlock's business is at the hospital, yes, but you are needed elsewhere."

"You know what-" John pauses, swallows hard.

"I really do believe it is in your best interest to let me take you from London, John."

The car is moving slowly, hampered by traffic. John only halfway hears what Mycroft says. He licks his lip nervously. "You know what, something is very clearly wrong and I've not got the time to play spy games with you."

Mycroft is very nearly scowling. His grip on his umbrella is loose. John realizes he might come to regret what he's about to do, but he has risked so much for- so much _with_- Sherlock already that accosting the British Government with his own umbrella seems almost the proper next step.

John is very fast and steady when it's needed. He twists the umbrella from Mycroft's careless grip, spins it in his hand, and hits Mycroft in the side of the head with the handle.

The sound of wood to flesh is sharp and clear in the silence of the car. It's not quite enough to knock Mycroft unconscious, but it certainly leaves him disoriented and incapacitated. John pulls the door handle and kicks the door wide open, pulling himself up and out of the car with a soldier's proficiency.

He does not pause, to do so would give Mycroft's bloody lapdogs a chance to tackle him to the ground. He clambers over the hood, putting the car between himself and the men already materializing from the street around 221B Baker Street.

John runs. Not away from danger, into it.

In his gut he knows something has gone very wrong, knows he won't like what he's going to find. But as he did under the burning desert sun he runs towards his comrade in arms without any concern for his own safety.

He slows to a jog once he's sure he's gained a lead on Mycroft's men. He wishes he had his gun.

Saint Bart's comes into view, and he breaks into a desperate run again, only stopping when the heavy arms of a police officer grab him and nearly throw him back into the mass of sobbing spectators.

John stumbles, catches himself.

The outer wall of the hospital is in shambles, the entire side cleaved off to leave jagged edged floors, broken pipes, plaster and glass and brick still dislodging and showering down on the rubble. The entire side of the building is sheared off. There are people inside the hospital, on various floors, standing at the jagged places where the wall has ripped away, screaming for help.

John knows Saint Bart's very well. Looking at the damage, his mind is already working out that the explosion must have been centered in the morgue, in the very southwestern corner of the basement. He can see down into it.

"Oh god," he moans, mouth dry and feeling full of cotton. "Christ, Sherlock. No."

John is not thinking clearly when he darts past police lines and evades the grasping hands of officers, running full tilt towards the rubble. Safety is not his concern. Once he makes it close enough, past several live wires and three fires and body parts- god, he thought he wouldn't see this kind of thing again- the police and rescue workers stop trying to grab him. He is too far beyond where they've established any kind of safety measures.

He finds a hole big enough to let him drop into the basement and finds himself in the morgue itself. There are bodies, the already dead kind, littering the floor. He checks through every single one of them.

The air is thick with smoke and debris, his eyes are already burning and he's feeling light-headed.

He realizes he should make some noise, that he should call for Sherlock. And somewhere in the very, very back of his mind he thinks- Molly, Molly is in here somewhere, too. But he is mostly focused on his mad, suicidal, infuriating flat mate. His best friend. The man he loves.

"Sherlock," he means to scream, only to whisper it instead.

There is a dangerous thrumming making its way through his system, and he refuses to acknowledge it. He has felt this before- on the battlefield, in the desert- when more than one soldier was bleeding out beneath his hands while he refused to believe they would die.

"Sherlock, please." And it's a bit louder this time.

From across the room there is a noise like debris being moved. John rushes to it, blindly, stupidly, only base instinct keeping him away from the most dangerous of the debris and fire.

It is not Sherlock. Only a shift in the building as it acclimates to its fractured infrastructure. John moves away and continues his search, calling out Sherlock's name.

John eventually finds Sherlock near the elevators. Or rather, where the elevators once were. And John realizes immediately that he'd never have been loud enough, never could have reached the detective's ears. Sherlock Holmes is dead. His brilliant mind has long since quieted. His soul, though Sherlock might never have believed he had one, has departed.

John observes this as if from very far away. His body reacts, hands pulling the ruin of Sherlock's body into his lap, mouth making incomprehensible sounds of mourning, but his mind shuts down.

When the paramedics finally come across John again his arms are locked around Sherlock and he will not let go. It's ridiculous, a small, so very small, part of him knows. He should let them do their job. He should get Sherlock out of here. But Sherlock was John's to protect and he hadn't and now... he can't let someone else take Sherlock.

"He's dead," he tells them, when they try to argue that they need to treat Sherlock's injuries. "He's dead, go away. Don't touch him. He doesn't like being touched."

Finally, as he is clearly physically uninjured and Sherlock is very clearly beyond help, they leave him alone in favor of searching for other survivors. He quiets and stills, eyes on Sherlock's bloodied face, unblinking, dry.

He has the brief and panic inducing thought that perhaps he is still in the desert and has simply lost my mind. That the last year has been the desperate dream of a damaged soldier. But the heavy weight of Sherlock's body in his arms is enough to remind him that this is all too real.

John runs his fingers over Sherlock's face, wiping blood off his forehead, gently brushing the pads of his fingertips over his eyelids, across his lips where blood is smeared. His nose is broken and so John is careful not to touch it. He pushes blood-wet locks of hair off Sherlock's forehead. It isn't until he brushes his fingers through the silky curls that he realizes the back of Sherlock's head is caved in. Utterly crushed.

John turns aside and vomits. With the vomit come tears. The world pitches and rolls around him. He retches and nothing comes up.

The world is so very loud around him. He presses his head against Sherlock's chest, no heartbeat, of course. A shudder runs through him. He nudges gently until his face is hidden against the long, white neck, and closes his eyes so tightly they ache. He raises one hand and taps out an even rhythm against Sherlock's throat. He can pretend, just for a moment, that it is a pulse. That Sherlock is sleeping. That all this is a very bad dream.


	6. Chapter 6

**Excerpt: Sherlock: June 12th, 2010 - Yorkshire, England:**

Sherlock realizes immediately that something has gone very wrong.

His plan was specific, everyone's movements planned for. He'd told Mycroft he was in immediate danger, nothing he couldn't handle, but to get John out of London and to the small cottage in Yorkshire that Mycroft had bought ages ago but never once used.

Sherlock used it once, years ago, the first time Mycroft had tried unsuccessfully to get him off his drug habit. Even now, watching it from a safe distance away, Sherlock feels as if spiders are crawling over his skin. Mycroft had kept him up here for a solid week. Sherlock had nearly burnt it down escaping and it had taken Mycroft three whole weeks to track him down after.

But Mycroft does not show.

His men do, checking the house and the surrounding land, posting two guards at each door. At least his brother had taken him seriously when he'd said the threat was very real. But then, Sherlock rarely asks Mycroft for help, so surely Mycroft must have realized how dire his little brother's situation had been.

Sherlock continues to wait, long after the time when Mycroft should have brought John. Long after the time when he'd planned to spirit John away so that they could go hunt Moriarty together. He doesn't want to leave John again. It had been hard, so much harder than he'd thought it would be, last time.

In his pocket his mobile vibrates. He pulls it out, carefully shielding the glow. He can't be too careful now. Everything hangs in a delicate balance, plates spinning on sticks, and he's only got so many hands.

_It went wrong. J saw the body. Tried to get to him, but Gov. men got there first._

The burner phone nearly drops from his nerveless fingers.

"Damn it," he curses, barely more than a whisper.

_Work to do. Take care of him. _He doesn't sign it as he normally would.

_He's not all right. Can't you come for him?_

His chest seizes, a sharp pain shooting through him. Emotion. Sentiment. Useless.

But he loves John as he has loved no one else. John with his jumpers and his gun and his tea, his neat and perfect mouth, his muscled shoulders, his soft stomach. John Watson who is the opposite of Sherlock Holmes in almost every way. Sherlock cannot push away sentiment or emotion as it pertains to John Watson. He has tried. It is a pointless endeavor, and so he has accepted it.

But it is sentiment that makes him type out _Won't be in contact for a while. Too dangerous to tell him now. Play the game. _

She doesn't respond, and so Sherlock puts the phone into his pocket. He eyes the cottage one last time, picturing very clearly the way the plan should have gone and how it needs to change now that it's just Sherlock.

After a few moments, he nods sharply to himself, turns, and heads to the train station. Moriarty is out there. Sherlock is working on the assumption that he will figure out Sherlock is not actually dead, and Sherlock needs every moment he can milk the ruse for.

Moriarty must be dead before he realizes Sherlock is not. It's the only way Sherlock can keep John safe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Five**

The day could not be drearier if it had been planned that way, and John Watson finds himself ignoring the service in favor of contemplating this.

The priest alone is enough to make John desperately desire a distraction. Sherlock would loathe this entire production. He hadn't believed in God and even if he did he'd have hated the monotonous droning of the priest. _Boring._ Mrs. Hudson is in hysterics with Molly beside her offering utterly meaningless consolations. Lestrade is mournfully stoic. Mycroft Holmes is made of unyielding stone.

They said Sherlock was heartless, but John knows the truth. Mycroft traded his heart for power a long time ago.

Anthea, just beside and behind Mycroft, is frowning hard at John, and he realizes he's been glaring at the elder Holmes brother.

John glares a moment longer, because he does not care about the British Government and what it may or may not do.

Then he looks up into the steadily falling rain instead. His dress uniform clings wetly to his skin, his wet hair plasters against his forehead. An umbrella blocks the sky and he blinks up at it, momentarily confused.

"John." Mycroft says, utterly calm and unemotional.

John would like to strangle him until it's rough and raw. The bruise at his hairline gives John a nasty jolt of satisfaction.

He meets Mycroft's gaze evenly. "Now is not the time." And John's voice is very quiet, very nearly pleasant. It is the most dangerous John Watson can sound.

Mycroft's expression does not change at the tone, but his wrist twitches and water flies from the umbrella. "There are things we must discuss. My brother knew something was going to hap-"

John's hit is carefully calculated. Short and quick against the side of Mycroft's face.

"Your brother knew? Your brother knew he was going to die? Is that what you were about to tell me, Mycroft?" he all but snarls.

There are service men ready to pounce on John, but Anthea raises her hand and they stop dead.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft starts carefully.

"Don't. Don't you dare tell me he knew this would happen. Because that means you knew and you could have done something! You could have protected him! And if you didn't. Jesus. If you let him walk right into that hospital when you and he both knew what Mori-" he chokes on the name. Chokes on his anger, his absolute and all-consuming sorrow.

John turns, a perfect military about-face, and then stumbles away from the burial site- from the brother, and the service men, and the pretty assistant, any of whom could have saved Sherlock, but didn't.

_Why, why, why, _he thinks, _why would Sherlock go if he knew something like this would happen? Why would he leave John behind? _

He's at 221B Baker Street without even knowing how he got there. He's almost sure he hailed a cab. Almost. Did he pay the man? Must have. The keys won't fit the lock. Does he have his keys? Yes, there they are.

He growls and punches the door.

There is something he's missing. He should have listened to Mycroft. Sherlock was right. John sees but he does not observe, and now he's lost Sherlock and-

He tries the keys again and this time manages to get the door open. He stumbles inside, making his way up the staircase. His leg trembles, threatens to give way underneath him.

He barely makes it to the sitting room, the familiar arm chairs. He stumbles again and his leg gives up- it folds and he spills to the ground before Sherlock's chair.

John might be ashamed of this weakness, he had been back when he'd needed his cane, but there is no one in the flat but himself and the ghost of the man he's just buried.

"Ghosts aren't real, idiot," he murmurs, resting his head against Sherlock's chair. The faded leather is cool against his flushed face.

His stomach rolls warningly, and he closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath. _Fine,_ he thinks, _I'm fine, it's all fucking, sodding, bloody fine._

"Think, John. Observe," he demands of himself, ignoring his stomach.

Sherlock had been acting strange. Stranger than usual. Just before he'd gone to the hospital he'd been ranting about Moriarty changing the game. So he had been... unnerved. Worried… scared, even? He'd wanted to go to Tesco with John, but hadn't wanted John to go with him to the morgue. So Mycroft was right- of course he was, he'd been coming around to take John out of harm's way, hadn't he?- and Sherlock had known what would happen. That was why he had waited for John to return from the shop.

Sherlock had known it would be the last time he'd ever see John.

But if he knew what Moriarty was planning, why go at all? Sherlock would never have just let Moriarty win the game.

Except Sherlock had said he didn't know the rules, didn't even know the game being played, anymore.

John takes in a deep breath and holds it, trying to clear his head.

It is because of this, and only this, that he hears it. An unfamiliar tread coming up the stairs, quiet as can be. He immediately moves into survival mode.

John's gun is in his bedroom, up a flight of stairs. He won't be able to get up there fast enough or without being heard. There's the window, but he's in no shape for a jump to the ground. Sherlock's desk has sharp utensils, but that would put John in line of sight with the door.

He lifts his head from the chair and slowly, silently, moves back to where he can see more of the door but he is better hidden.

The day is late, the sun only now peeking out through dreary clouds as it sets. It creates elaborate shadows and John sees the shape of a gun in a large man's hand before it twists against the wall and moves into the room.

So, this is it, then. It all slides into place and it's as if Sherlock is _right there_, explaining every piece of the puzzle.

Moriarty must have threatened John. Sherlock had gone when John was in danger, as Sherlock had proved he always would. The case with the Johns, the letter saying John would die, the burnt out hospital- all of it to see if Sherlock could be controlled through John.

The air in the room shifts, and John holds in his breath. The floorboard creaks; the shadow solidifies and becomes a leg. A leg which is attached to a man in army fatigues, with a silenced pistol in his hand. John can see a strong jaw, light five o'clock shadow, blond hair that is only slightly darker than John's own.

He doesn't dare risk further movement. He folds in on himself, tucks his head against the chair. And waits. John knows seven ways to disarm the man, but he'd rather not. He's tired, his body weighed down with grief. He's good, but he's good enough to know he could be so much better. And this man is fit, and every part of him screams _murder_, _danger_, and _Moriarty_.

The assassin leaves the room, and John moves to a different hiding spot. He takes slow, even steps into the kitchen and flattens himself against a wall. Sure enough, when the assassin comes back down the stairs he takes another look around the sitting room, surveying the kitchen as well, though the angle is wrong and there's no chance he can see John.

There is the jangle of keys in the lock downstairs. John's eyes catch on one of Sherlock's scalpels, stabbed into what looks like a fingerless hand, or possibly some sort of squash. He could grab the scalpel and tackle the man before he gets to the top of stairs.

But just as he's about the move he hears the window open and the distinct sound of someone climbing out. The assassin, it would seem, is not out to murder just anyone who happens to be in 221B.

John can see in his mind, quite clearly, the neat and perfect bullet holes in the heads of three men. A chill runs down his spine.

It takes several long seconds for Mrs. Hudson to get the door open. John doesn't greet her when she calls up to him. After a few moments of silence he hears her quiet words.

"Poor boy. He's taking it hard. Why not go check on him, then?"

There are soft footsteps retreating and then a heavier tread heading up the stairs.

Lestrade, more than like.

John debates revealing himself. If the assassin is still watching, and he may well be, he will know John knows of his existence. And it is better that John have that advantage. Still, Lestrade is someone John can trust. And John is suddenly certain he will need as many of those as he can find.

John pulls out his cell and texts quickly.

_Meet me at the pub? Need a drink. Or seven. - John_

In the doorway Lestrade's mobile chimes.

"He's at the pub, Mrs. Hudson. He's just texted me." Lestrade goes back down the stairs.

"If you're all right I'm going to meet him. Make sure he doesn't have too many."

"Oh, I'll be fine. Go see to John."

The door opens and shuts again. There is a heavy creaking and then the sound of quiet sobbing.

"Oh, Sherlock. What a mess you've left," Mrs. Hudson whispers.

Tears burn John's eyes. He looks purposefully away from the remnants of Sherlock's most recent experiment. It is suddenly impossible that he should remain in this flat for a second more. Assassin or no, John must get out.

He uses the window, taking his cue from the assassin. The jump is not so bad. And no one shoots him.

The pub is not particularly busy, but it is still early. Lestrade has beaten him there and is in a booth near the door, pint in hand, looking worried.

John sits down, nodding his head in greeting.

"There you are. I was getting worried. Thought you'd already be here."

John shakes his head, eyes taking in the people populating the pub. He is not Sherlock Holmes, but he survived being shot at in the desert because he has a good eye and better instincts. He only got shot because he will always be a doctor first and a soldier second.

He shrugs his scarred shoulder. "About that. Listen. I was at the flat when you brought Mrs. Hudson round. Someone else was there."

Lestrade's eyebrows furrow and his mouth deepens into a frown. "At Baker Street, you mean?"

"Mmm, yes. I don't know who else to trust with this, Greg. So I need to know now if you don't want me to say anymore."

Lestrade leans closer, arms stretched out on the table. "This has to do with Sherlock? The bombing?"

John has to close his eyes, take a deep breath, at the easy way those words leave Lestrade's mouth. Finally he chokes out, "It was Moriarty."

Lestrade's frown deepens. "John, no. No. Sherlock went after him, after that case. With the three Johns. You know that, that whole time he was gone..."

John stares down into his pint. He'd assumed Sherlock would have told Lestrade he hadn't managed to track Moriarty down.

"To be honest I'd figured Moriarty was dead when he never said another word about him. Thought it'd be better if I just didn't ask."

John's left hand shakes. Was there a reason Sherlock hadn't told Lestrade that Moriarty had gotten away? Lestrade couldn't be part of it. Could he?

His eyes rove desperately over Lestrade's face, looking for signs of deceit. But Lestrade looks confused and nothing more. No. No, John had to trust someone.

And if he is wrong, if Lestrade is somehow tangled up with Moriarty... well... well.

_Sherlock's face with blood latticed across his pale skin. His head caved in at the back. The sickening twist of one long, lean leg_. John's stomach heaves, bile flooding his mouth. He takes a long drink to wash it away.

Well.

"Sherlock never caught Moriarty. He had a clue, a threat, really. I think... I'm fairly certain that it's led to all this. Saint Bart's and-" He closes his eyes, can't bring himself to say the words.

"Christ, John. What do we do? What are we supposed to do? Have you told Mycroft?"

John shakes his head. "I can't... I don't... I will. Talk to him. I just couldn't, at the funeral, I was too-"

"John. It's okay. I can talk to him, we'll... I don't know... we'll investigate this. The Yard is already working on the explosion, but it was made to look like a gas line. But we can keep it quiet."

"I'll take care of Mycroft." John finishes his pint, suddenly incapable of sitting still a second longer. He wants to go back to Baker Street, get his gun, go see Mycroft. Sherlock wouldn't sit and mourn. He'd be doing something, figuring it all out. He'd have blood on his hands by now, if John were the one dead. John _knows_ this. Hadn't Sherlock said he'd burn all of London for John? Didn't Sherlock deserve the same?

Lestrade grabs his arm, shaking him. "Hey, John. Do not take this into your own hands. You, Mycroft, myself- we'll figure out what happened. We'll track down Jim Moriarty. But do not go haring off by yourself. Do you hear me?"

John nods, hopes it's convincing because he's not sure if he can wait for Mycroft or Lestrade. He takes his leave and heads back to Baker Street.

Less than twenty-four hours later he has packed his old army rucksack, his gun is tucked into the small of his back. He hasn't seen even a hint of the sniper, but he's been very careful. He only tells Mrs. Hudson that he needs to get out of London. Not a complete lie. The less she knows the safer it will be for her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Six**

Mycroft is a hard man to find if the man is not already looking for you. It is fortunate for John, in this case, that Mycroft watches him so carefully.

It takes setting three rubbish bins on fire in full view of CTV cameras before the nearest pay phone rings and Anthea tells him to walk two blocks and look for the black car.

He barely makes it down the first block. He slides into the back seat and isn't surprised to find that Anthea is alone.

"I need to see your boss," he declares.

She looks over to him, blandly, and says, "Obviously."

They drive. John does not bother trying to figure out where to. He has other things to focus on. The logistics of this mission he's given himself, for instance.

He has money. Sherlock left a rather large stash of cash hidden under a loose floorboard._ Bail money_, John had joked. _Life insurance_, Sherlock had answered. John shivers, remembering that conversation. So, yes, he has money, but not enough for what he's planning. He should be able to rally some support- Lestrade is doing all the digging he can and still avoid notice, Sherlock's homeless network, old army friends whose lives John had saved, some are very high ranking now.

But without enough money rallying that support will take time. And John has time, is willing to take every second he needs. But he thirsts for Moriarty's blood as he has never thirsted for anything else. It is the hunger that gnaws at his belly and curls in his heart, edging out all over drives and needs and passions. The grief is horrible. It could kill him. Vengeance suits him better. He can live on vengeance. Grow fat with it. Mycroft could help him move faster. Get to Moriarty sooner.

Moriarty killed Sherlock, and so Moriarty must die. John cares very little about the supposed web the madman has woven. Whether John himself dies or not is beside the point- so long as Moriarty dies before him, John will be nearly square with the world.

He doesn't realize he's clenching his fist until his phone makes a popping noise of protest. Anthea shoots him a rather guarded look, typing one handed on her blackberry. John forces himself relax and wait until he reaches Mycroft.

"No."

It is not the answer John expects, although he's starting to think he should have.

John lets out a breath. "Right. He murdered your brother, Mycroft. You know it. I know it. Sherlock knew it. And you plan on doing what, exactly? Letting him run free?"

In all the time John has known Mycroft he has rarely seen him react outwardly to a situation. A frown, or a grimace, maybe a pointed glare here and there, yes. But at John's words Mycroft pales and looks as if he might actually sick up.

It takes a while before he answers. "My brother apparently knew what was coming. He appeared to have it all in hand. So I left him to it, as he preferred it." Mycroft pauses, and is quiet again for a long time. "Sherlock has rarely asked me for assistance of any kind. He phoned me that night and asked that I remove you safely from London. That I keep you safe. I failed to remove you from London, but I _will _keep you safe, John. So no. No, I'm afraid I cannot help you to track down James Moriarty. I will honor my brother's last wish."

John is a man with a temper, not that most people notice it. It's a quiet thing, John's rage. He is motionless, standing in front of Mycroft's desk, his vision red, his ears ringing.

"There was a man in 221B," he says finally, teeth clenched against the words. "He was there to kill me. Is that you keeping me safe, then?"

Mycroft gives a half smile that is more a frown and answers, "My men couldn't draw him out, unfortunately, but we did drive him away. It is known, I assure you, that you are protected."

John turns away, looking out the window at the greater part of London. It has never looked so strange to him, so empty and pitiful. Of course Mycroft knew about the man. And of course he had driven him off.

John's only fucking lead on where Moriarty might be and Mycroft Holmes has run him off to protect John Watson. For the sake of his thrice-damned little brother who'd known he was going into danger that night and had left John behind. Again.

"Did you find where he'd squatted?" The man had to have been watching the flat.

"Yes." Mycroft's tone is wary.

"I want to see everything you rounded up. Every scrap of paper or bit of laundry."

Mycroft sighs. His chair groans as it's pushed back and Mycroft stands.

"I should say no." There is the sound of keys in a latch and a drawer being opened. "But since this is the only thing we found, I don't actually see any harm in it."

Mycroft holds the photo out over John's shoulder. John takes it with dangerously steady hands.

The photo is of John and Sherlock, unsurprisingly. It was taken after the pool incident, as they were stumbling out of the car and toward the door to the flat.

_Don't just see_, Sherlock's voice whispers in his head, _observe_.

It is not for identification, this photo; their faces are too grainy for that. A slight groove has been rubbed across the photo, over Sherlock's face. By a gloved finger, John would wager, to avoid prints. The man had not been sloppy.

What did that tell him? Had Moriarty held this photo? No. Too sentimental, though surely he'd been the one having them watched. So then, someone connected to Moriarty. Not just a gun for fire.

There's emotion in the mark on the photo. Want? Desire? Maybe. If it were Moriarty's, John might think so. But no.

He thinks back to that night at the pool. Moriarty calling John a pet. Had he mentioned wanting one for himself? Yes. So then, Moriarty's pet assassin. The groove worried into the picture is... jealousy.

John had hated Moriarty because he was a lunatic and a murderer, but he had truly loathed him because he'd managed to take Sherlock's attention so completely.

Moriarty's assassin would be a cold blooded killer, a very good one. He'd be prone to violence and not particularly empathetic. But the chances of him being a sociopath or a psychopath were low. Which meant he'd feel something like jealousy over Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock.

It isn't much to go on, but it's a start. An idea from which other leads can grow.

"There was nothing else?"

"No."

"Would you tell if there was?"

There is a sigh, and then Mycroft answers, "More than likely not."

John turns, teeth bared in anger. "Goddamn it, Mycroft! You-" He cuts off with an aggravated hum.

Mycroft's eyes are watery and pale, on anyone else they might be thought of as tearful. To John he looks weak and useless.

"There was only the photo. My men are still working on it, but it is not promising."

"That's not good enough."

"It has to be. It has to be enough to keep you alive and safe, John."

John turns on his heel and shoves past the elder Holmes brother. If he stays in Mycroft's presence for one moment longer he might commit murder. And he can't kill Moriarty if he's in the brig for killing Mycroft bloody Holmes.

Anthea has a car waiting. Of course she fucking does. He's tempted to refuse it. He wants to refuse it. But his leg has been acting up since Sherlock died- he _knows_ it's all in his head but the sodding thing_ hurts_- and he doesn't want to walk to find a cab. He's no idea where he is anyway.

"Not Baker Street. New Scotland Yard." He takes a petty pleasure in being rude. Then feels guilty and mutters, "I'm sorry."

He hates the pity in her eyes. He sighs and looks resolutely out the window for the rest of the ride, making a mental list of all the people he's going to need to contact if his plan to get to Moriarty is to work.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Seven**

John doesn't talk much about Afghanistan. He's not sure he's met a soldier who does. But the one thing he absolutely does not talk about is getting shot. Sherlock has- _had_, he corrects himself viciously- deduced quite a bit of it. But some things even Sherlock misses.

For instance, John had gotten shot protecting a patient. But Sherlock, who didn't believe in heroes, assumed it was because John had purposefully and willingly taken the hit to protect the boy. And he had been a boy, a boy whose leg had been mangled in an IED explosion. But John hadn't seen the enemy shooter or covered the boy. He'd just bent over at the wrong time because the kid and had been trying to tell him something. And yes, John had killed the shooter before collapsing on the sand under the assumption that he would bleed to death there. But that had been some base instinct he'd had no control over combined with the fact that he really was a rather good shot.

Sherlock also never quite managed to figure out that the boy John had saved was the son of a Minister of Defense. Which one John has never said, not even to his therapist. It's in the records, of course, but those are sealed. When John makes the call he never thought he'd make, to cash in a favor he didn't necessarily think he was owed, the boy's father takes his call immediately.

Three days later finds him meeting an old army friend near the Eye. The man doesn't look much different than John remembers. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing the tangle of scars that cover his forearm. He flexes his fingers at John when he catches him looking.

"Still working just fine, Doc," he says cheerfully.

Four months into John's tour he saved the left arm of one of the best techs the army has ever seen. He was the first soldier John had almost lost. All his previous patients had had relatively minor injuries. Soldiers don't forget these kind of things- the moment they almost die, or the moment one almost dies on you.

Thomas Killian, said army tech, hands him a passport with a new name, new dog tags, a standard issue army pistol, and a large amount of money.

"Thanks for going to the trouble," John says.

Thomas shrugs. "It was less trouble than you'd be comfortable knowing. Also, did a little extra."

Thomas gives John an untraceable mobile, a device that will hack all but the top government computers, and the key code to any mobile's GPS. Techs, it seems, value their arms.

"This is too much," he protests.

"No. It's not. You didn't say much when you called- about where you were going or why you needed all this stuff. But I heard from a close friend that you called a certain someone about a life you once saved. So I figure this is big, whatever you're in right now. Truth is, Doc, you saved a lot of lives and we don't forget things like that. So take it. I figure you'll need it. If you don't give it back when you come back." Thomas shrugs again, a nervous tic.

"You could get in a lot of trouble." John's stomach churns at the thought; he doesn't want to drag other people into this.

Thomas looks him dead in the eye and says nothing.

"Killian, I mean it. This is too much."

"The day you saved my arm, how many times did the Captain tell you to leave me? That I was a lost cause, bleeding out, and I was wasting your time?"

John closes his eyes, remembers how Killian was the first soldier he didn't think he could save. His arm had been so mangled. And it had been terrible conditions, the burning jeep to the left of them, the ever looming threat of enemy fire. The Captain had been furious when John wouldn't leave him. But John had looked into Thomas' green eyes and seen, not just fear, but hope. And he couldn't have left him. It wasn't who John was.

"Exactly. Good luck, Doc, with whatever it is you're going after. Let me know if you make it back." Thomas stands, and John stands as well. They shake hands and Thomas' grip tightens. "There's one other thing, Doc. I did some digging. You said you were looking for a gun for hire, right? More than likely a sniper? Well, I've got a name for you that's been showing up in the chatter for the last couple of months. I wouldn't think anything of it except the timing is too perfect and it's been awhile since he heard anything on this guy."

"What's the name?"

Thomas bites his lip, takes a deep breath, and sighs it out. "Sebastian Moran. Not that it gives you much to go on. Bloke is a ghost."

John nods. The name means nothing to him, but any information is good. "Thanks, Killian. Be safe."

Thomas nods and walks away.

Mycroft Holmes is the British Government, but John has contacts in the British Army. And that seems to count for something.

He dyes his hair in the kitchen sink of the flat he's renting for the week. He runs his hands through the short, dark brown strands and frowns. Nothing for it, though, he needs to look less like himself.

He pays for a flight to Berlin in cash. His flight is at three that Sunday and he has one stop to make before he goes on to the airport.

The cemetery is busy, but it usually is on a Sunday. No one pays him much mind as he makes his way to the headstone.

The day is dry, though the sky is gray and threatening rain. He doesn't dare stay too long, can't risk anyone taking note of him for any reason. He runs his hand over the black stone, over the gold engraving of Sherlock's name.

"Idiot," he chokes out, tears tightening his throat. He swallows convulsively and licks his dry lips.

He doesn't know what else to say. And isn't that ridiculous? There are a thousand things he'd like to say, all the words he'd never dared to utter, but not to Sherlock's headstone.

"I'm going to kill him," he finally says. "I know that's probably not what you would have wanted but it's what I've got to do. There's nothing for it, Sherlock."

He doesn't say _I love you_, or _you won't be alone long_, or _why did you leave me behind_. Maybe he will, after he kills Moriarty. If he lives that long. Maybe in heaven. If there is one. Maybe.

"I'll see you, Sherlock."

He returns to the waiting cab. He has a flight to catch.


	10. Chapter 10

**Excerpt: Sherlock: September 21st, 2010 - Moscow, Russia: **

Sherlock keeps the gun, similar in weight and feel to John's, in the waistband of his jeans.

He has not had cause yet to draw it. To date he has poisoned, strangled, and drowned men. But the gun, this gun which warms in his hand so quickly, which is smooth and elegant in its own violent way, is for Moriarty. And Moran. That it reminds him of John is less coincidence than cause.

And today it would seem, is the gun's day.

For Moriarty, posing at the moment as bartender Frank Gellar, is inside the flat that Sherlock stands before.

The hour is late, and Russia is cold, and Sherlock would very much like a cup of John's tea to warm him.

The door creaks as he opens it, but that is no matter at all. If Moriarty realizes he is here now, all the better. Sherlock intends for him to know exactly who is putting a bullet in his head.

Sherlock sighs, closing the door behind him. He had enjoyed playing the game until Moriarty had dragged John into it. He never should have done that.

But then, there is John now, isn't there? John to explore and experiment on and with, a living puzzle to figure out.

Sherlock smiles and it is not kind. The sooner he kills Moriarty the sooner he can have John back.

"I knew it. Oh, you are good, though. I'd only just begun to suspect. It's quite clever, quite." The Russian accent fades and by the end of it all the lilting Irish that sometimes drops into posh English is back.

Familiar and grating.

The kitchen light goes on revealing the small man sitting on the counter with a glass of water. He is only in his pants.

Ordinary men, Sherlock supposes, would think him frail looking in the harsh light and with his lack of cover. Sherlock knows he is still as dangerous as ever, perhaps more so.

"Yes, a bit slow of you, really," Sherlock drawls out, pulling the gun from his waistband.

"A gun? Really, Sherlock? Boring. Dull. Pedestrian."

Sherlock is silent, waits. Moriarty will catch it.

The mouth goes wide, eyes narrowing. "Oh, I see. For _John_. Clever, except for the sentiment." A roll of the eyes.

Sherlock shrugs one shoulder in dismissal.

"Well, go on, then. I'm afraid _my _pet is still running loose, though. Not much of a challenge for you, here."

Sherlock clicks the safety. The sound is satisfyingly loud in the quiet flat. He knows exactly where Moran is and where he'll be heading next.

"You're being boring," Moriarty accuses.

"I'll be very interesting in just a moment, I promise you." He aims, stepping closer.

He's a terrible shot. John had taken him shooting once, after the mess with the Gollum, and had despaired of him ever hitting anything closer than an arm's length away.

He won't risk missing this shot.

The gun presses into the pale, sweaty skin on Moriarty's forehead. Those wide dark eyes stare up at him, lips spread is a sickly smile.

"Will you tell me how you did it, at least? My fireworks were meant for your pet, after all. Not you."

Confirmation, not that he'd needed it, really. Sherlock had assumed, quite correctly, that Sherlock having been killed and not John would have enraged Moriarty. For John _had_ been the intended target.

There had been a last minute text that should have sent Sherlock up to his lab, leaving John and Molly in the morgue. The way he had so many times before. If he had brought John with him to the morgue, the way he had so many times before.

Sherlock had had his suspicions since the meeting in the burnt out hospital. Confirmation came in the form of the bomber, tracked back to that warehouse in Germany where the man had been hiding out. From his old boss, as circumstances would have it.

The same miscalculation that put the idiot in Moriarty's line of fire was the very thing that saved him from Sherlock's. John was not dead, after all.

"You're clever. And you'll have an eternity in hell to parcel it all out."

Sherlock pulls the trigger. Moriarty slides a knife into Sherlock's thigh.

The bullet passes quite neatly into James Moriarty's forehead and splatters messily out of the back of his head. His head falls back, and his blood sprays across the kitchen, thick brain matter coats the cabinets. There is blood on Sherlock's face. He pulls the trigger again before the corpse slides to the floor. This one catches him under the chin and exits the top of this head.

Sherlock tucks the gun back into his jeans and looks down at the knife in his thigh. It has, thankfully, missed the femoral artery. There's no way to be sure if the miss was purposeful or not.

Now, he thinks, would be a very good time to have his doctor with him.

He scowls down at the body of James Moriarty, pulls his gun from his jeans again, and shoots one last time.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eight**

The hotel is crap. There's mold in the bathroom, and John has no intention of actually sleeping under the covers, but it does have Wi-Fi and a view of the old warehouse just a ways down the road. The first fact is convenient. The second is of utmost importance. Traces of leather left on the photograph Moran had held, the smallest bit of mud left on the top step to the flat he'd stayed in, had indicated this was the last place he'd been.

He'd had to make Lestrade take the samples to Molly. John couldn't afford to be seen investigating anything to do with Sherlock's death or Moriarty.

John doesn't bother unpacking. He doesn't know how long he'll be here, but he wants to be able to move fast when he has the need. Instead he settles into the armchair, pulling near to, but not in front of, the window. He cleans his gun and watches.

The warehouse was used for stockpiling weapons back in World War II. It is one of two that would have the kind of mineral that was in the mud from the stair. The other warehouse was used for housing livestock about to be slaughtered and is less likely to be one Moriarty would choose.

He settles in to watch, staying up for a full twenty-four hours before he falls asleep, chin to chest, in the chair. He orders coffee and food when he wakes up after a couple of hours and rubs his neck as he resumes his watch.

The coffee he drinks down, burning his throat. The food is mostly ignored. His stomach complains, but his throat tightens at the thought of trying to swallow anything solid.

He spends the majority of the week this way. Watching until he can no longer keep his eyes open, waking and ordering take out, having brief showers in cold water. Just as with that first day, most of the take out goes untouched and at the end of the week he ventures from the room to throw it all away, taking the time to look at the warehouse without a pane of dirty glass as a filter. Even then he doesn't stay out lot; it's dark and he's paranoid about being followed.  
Only once does anyone go near the place. On the third day around three when he's trying not to nod off an older man stops to piss on the door. He is tall and stooped, a grimy hat over his dark hair. He looks up and down the street as he pisses, then looks up at the roof of the warehouse. The man moves on after, without so much as a backward glance.

When John is finally too impatient and too bored to wait any longer, he ventures into the old warehouse for himself.

He goes in at night, breaks the old lock on the doors and slides through. He closes the door behind him and adjusts the dark cap on his head. Using a pocket torch, he surveys the space around him. The corners of the room are filled with broken wooden boxes, there's litter scattered on the dirty floor. Cold wind heaves violently against the outside of the warehouse, shaking the old chains still hanging off the walls. The structure is not particularly stable. The loft is practically collapsing down to the first floor.

John risks climbing the stairs one careful step at a time. Shell casings are everywhere, and most are many centuries old. John kneels, ignoring the way his leg complains, and checks every single one in the light of a pocket torch.

He is rewarded when, two hours later, he finds the one shell that does not belong with the others, it's bright against the dull metal of the older ones. He finds the second one twenty minutes later. There is something very distinct about them, their shape slightly different from the ones he's seen before.

"Of course," he whispers to himself. "He would have outfitted him with the very best. Private manufacturer, then." He carefully bags the two shells and shoves them into his jacket pocket.

Returning to the hotel, he locks the room, slides the deadbolt home, then shoves the desk chair under the doorknob for good measure. He can't be too careful.

In the glaring light of the bathroom he snaps pictures of the shells and sends them to Thomas Killian.

_Private arms dealer. On Interpol watch list. Also under NATO surveillance. Base in Thane, India. Outside Mumbai. _is the text awaiting him the following morning.

He texts Lestrade as soon as he purchases his ticket. He also double checks Killian's private address. He'll need Killian to run prints on the bullet casings, to make sure it really is Moran they are dealing with.

Lestrade responds_ Sounds dangerous. Just wait for me. I can meet you there._

John shakes his head and keys in_ Too risky. Too much time. One man better for this. Will text when I'm done. Mrs. H okay?_

_Worried about you. Confirmed you'd said you needed out of London last time we hit the pub. Seems convinced._

John throws his phone on the bed and starts double checking his rucksack, making sure everything is packed. Satisfied he hasn't forgotten anything, he lays his gun down on the table. With reservation he puts it in the hard case with his laptop and the other electronics Thomas had given him, so he can check it all in. He'll attract less attention if he's not pulling a gun out of his waist just before boarding a plane.

He doesn't bother staying another night in the hotel, he goes to the airport instead. Security gives him little trouble, and he heads towards his gate to settle in a chair and possibly doze. He feels cleaner and more comfortable than he has in days, now that he's out of the hotel.

John has a couple of pints at the hotel bar before finding a place to settle. The alcohol helps him rest, quiets his mind. Twenty minutes of sitting with his eyes closed and John is not fully asleep, but is very far from being awake, and he begins to dream of Sherlock. He dreams of long fingers carding through his hair, tracing the tips of his ears, the curve of his jaw.

"I don't like this dye. Change it back," that familiar voice rumbles against his temple.

John closes his eyes very tightly, willing himself to sink further into sleep. He wants to stay here, to let the dream take him. His body aches with missing Sherlock, from not sleeping or eating properly. He just wants to rest, to hear Sherlock's voice.

"You aren't me. It's foolish, pretending as if you were." Cool, full lips press against his neck.

He smiles, slipping further into sleep. "Someone has to, now you've gone," he mumbles.

The hands are back in his hair and he breathes in, slow and deep, the air around him smells of Sherlock. "But not you. It is far more important to have John Watson in the world then it is to have Sherlock Holmes."

John wants to laugh, to weep, to tell Sherlock how very wrong he is. But he is so tired. He sleeps instead.

He wakes with his jacket bunched beneath his head, and he feels better rested than he has since Sherlock died. He looks around in alarm, remembering where he is and why. The airport is busier than earlier but nothing pings his radar as dangerous. He shouldn't have had the drinks, shouldn't have let his guard down.

He remembers his dream then- Sherlock's touch, the smell of him, his voice in his ear.

John leans forward, hiding his face in his hands, and shudders with dry sobs, the tears refusing to come.

He is red eyed and exhausted when he lands in India. The two cups of coffee he drank on the plane are sloshing uncomfortably in his stomach. He's not sure what the last thing he ate was, and the smell of street food is making him nauseous. He remembers Sherlock going for days on nothing more than water and a few sips of tea. John knows he should eat, but he cannot bring himself to do so. Instead, he finds a hotel and sets himself up again. He allows himself time to sleep, hoping to shake off whatever's making him feel so sick.

It will take time to find the manufacturing facility, and he'll have to get a contact who knows the city.

He can't shake this illness. The small amount of food he's willing to eat doesn't stay down. He's feverish. As a doctor he knows he should see someone, but there is no one he trusts. Not here, not with Moriarty's operations so close. So he works through it, sipping delicately at tea to keep himself hydrated, eating flat bread when he has the energy. The hotel sends up coffee a couple of times and he tries to drink it, needing the energy if nothing else, but it sits wrong in his stomach afterwards.

A week after he lands in India he meets with a low ranking Israeli official supposedly in town on business. The man has four hired guns and a woman on his arm. John is quite sure the woman is the more dangerous of the five.

The Minister of Defense had, quite discreetly, set up this meeting. It is the last favor he owes John Watson, that had been made abundantly clear. The entire situation feels a bit like a book or an action movie come to life. If Sherlock were- he chokes on the thought- if Sherlock were with him it would all be very exciting.

As it is, he finds it tiresome. And he's having a hard time keeping the flatbread he had for breakfast down. Every now and then his vision goes blurry and the room spins around him.

"What you ask for is dangerous," the official says, not quite meeting John's eyes, as if, if he doesn't acknowledge John's presence, then the meeting isn't happening.

"I just need an address."

"What you need is dangerous," he says again.

"Look, this is a waste of time. Either give me the address or I will find it myself." He stands abruptly from the chair.

The men barely move but there is an alertness about them. The woman, however, flashes the knife that is still halfway hidden up her sleeve. John raises his hands, showing that he has no weapon or intention of grabbing one.

"I know the situation. I know who James Moriarty is. And all I need now is this address." And he doesn't care if a note of desperation has entered his voice. He _is_ desperate.

The woman eases the knife back into her sleeve and rises to her feet. She hands him a slip of paper.

"You never met us," the official says.

The woman stares hard at John until he says, "Of course."

"She will walk you out."

John doesn't waste time heading immediately for the door. The woman follows with an even, unhurried gate. She leads him down the employee's stairwell, and John watches as everyone they pass averts their eyes. She disarms the emergency exit alarm and lets him out.

"The name you said, the man you know. Dangerous is not a strong enough word for that one. Dangerous has limits. Insanity knows none."

"He killed my..." he trails off, because there isn't a word to describe Sherlock and all that he had been to John.

The woman frowns harder. "Walk away from this. Whatever the one you lost was to you I doubt they would want you to die this way."

He shrugs.

"You are sick." The change of topic startles him.

"Yes, I'm feeling under the weather."

Her eyes rove over him, taking in every detail. Her face softens suddenly and it's honestly more worrying than anything else he's seen today.

"I wish you luck." She turns on her heel and the door slams shut behind her.

John's stomach finally revolts and he spends ten minutes being sick behind a bin.

When he's done he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks down at the paper clutched in his fist. The exact location of the facility.

He's not entirely in his right mind by the time he finds someone to guide him to the address, but it's slipped his notice. He hasn't eaten in three days and he's barely had anything to drink. That he's on his feet at all would amaze him if he could focus on anything other than getting to facility and staying on his feet. The guide, whom he's paid a hefty sum for, keeps giving him strange and sometimes worried looks.

For all the looks though, the man won't take him further than the edge of property and then promises to wait three miles down the road to the north.

John's hands are shaking as he draws his gun, holding it against his side. The door is open, there's no lock. It protests loudly when he pushes it wider and steps in.

It's empty.

As in Germany there is no one in the building, nothing being stored, there is only litter and garbage, stray steel. As if the whole operation were packed away, but the cleaning crew never showed up.

"Bloody fuck," John mutters.

It could be a coincidence, the warehouse in Germany and this building here. That place was old, it hadn't seemed off to find it abandoned and empty, but- no. No. His gut is telling him there's no way both leads could have led him to empty buildings.

Is Moriarty covering his trail? Or is this how he does it? Settling in no one place for any extended amount of time? But surely he couldn't move an entire weapons manufacturing facility? Could he?

John falls back against the door, sliding down to the floor, head falling back. For hours he just sits, waiting for something to happen and unable to summon the strength to move. No one comes, nothing happens.

Eventually he forces himself to stand and walks out into the pale sunrise. All the colors seem muted, the smells too strong. He staggers. His stomach burns. He retches, but all that comes out is a thin trail of bile and spit. His eyes feel dry, his mouth stuffed with cotton balls. He is shivering even though the day is already warming.

Sherlock died over a month ago, he thinks. He'd been dealing, hadn't he? Before he changed his name and dyed his hair and- he was a shit detective, wasn't he? Sherlock would have avenged him by now. Or gotten over him, maybe. Likely. All John had done was change his name and dye his hair. He was a shit detective.

John shakes his head, the movement making his head pound. He's been stupid for thinking this was possible, that he could figure any of this out. Sherlock had been tested by Moriarty, frustrated, pushed. How could John hope to compete?

He rests his head in the dirt, eyes blinking against the milky sunlight.

"You are not well," his guide says, from several yards away.

John does not have the energy to look at him, or to even be surprised to see him there.

"No. No I'm not," he mumbles, and closes his eyes, letting unconsciousness take him down deep.

John wakes in hospital. Mycroft is there. John opens his mouth to say something, to tell him off. All that comes out is a strangled noise that takes so much effort that John goes unconscious again.

John does not remember much of the next, entire month. He is delirious and in and out of consciousness for much of it. He will start to rally and then the illness will hit him again. He follows the same pattern three times.

Sometimes he thinks Lestrade is there, sometimes Mycroft. Sometimes they are together and Lestrade is telling Mycroft off and that he doesn't know what John's going through.

When they are alone he thinks he hears Mycroft apologize but that's probably the fever. The worst and the best, though, is when he sees Sherlock. It only happens once, that very first week he's in hospital.

It is the same as the airport. His eyes are closed and he is most of the way to sleep. Sherlock's hands run through his hair.

"You have to stop this. Go back to England, John. Take care of yourself."

John moans, head thrashing on the pillow because he can't do what Sherlock is asking. He has to kill Moriarty. Then he can rest, then he can die. Doesn't Sherlock understand that's how it has to be? Didn't Sherlock once say he would burn himself and all of London for John?

"Leave Moriarty's network alone. He knew you were tracking him. That's why you're sick. That coffee on the plane, on the hotel. Do you see? If Moran doesn't put a bullet in you, he will kill you some other way. Let Mycroft take you home."

John growls and shoves Sherlock's hand away. He can barely open his eyes, but he tries, glaring in the direction of Sherlock's voice.

"Your brother can sod right off," he snaps, more energy in his words than he's actually capable of feeling. "You sod off, too, come to think of it. You left me."

"Not because I wanted to. I had to end this."

"Yeah, well. You're dead. Moriarty and I will be soon. The end."

The hand leaves his hair and there is silence. John only barely remembers the conversation when he wakes the next morning.

Five weeks after he first lands in India he is judged well enough to fly home. Which is honestly more about Mycroft's wish to get him home and keep him safe than it is a testimony to his recovery.

Mycroft has the doctors keep him drugged for most of the trip.

They don't go back to Baker Street. Mycroft sets him up in a flat clear across town. He has private nurses and doctors who make house calls. Armed guards at all times, every single one of them recognizable to John as someone he's seen guarding Mycroft before.

John is on so many prescriptions he can barely keep the guards' names straight regardless.

Mrs. Hudson visits, scolding him for running off the way he did. He was a doctor and should know better how to keep from getting sick while out of country, she scolds, so he gathers neither Lestrade nor Mycroft had told her what he'd been about.

Lestrade comes to visit often, but doesn't say much. The first lucid thing John manages to ask is if they found any evidence, any clues, in India.

Lestrade shakes his head and sighs. "Mycroft's men swept the place, John. They didn't find anything. No trails to a person or a place."

John makes an impatient noise and jerks his arm in irritation. His whole body aches with the movement.

"Just rest," Lestrade says. "Get well. It took an awful lot to get that bacteria out of your system. It could have killed you. Christ, it almost did."

"Moriarty-" John begins, nearly breathless already.

"Is out of your reach right now. You're in no shape to be pursuing this. It's not worth dying over, John."

John makes a bitter, disgusted noise.

"He wouldn't have wanted this. Sherlock wouldn't," Lestrade says carefully. "I've been talking to Mycroft quite a bit. Everything Sherlock was doing was to keep you alive."

John holds up his hand, silently begging Lestrade to stop. He can't hear anymore. He doesn't want to.

Lestrade deflates, shoulders dropping.

"Right. Okay. I'll come in another couple of days, okay?"

John closes his eyes without answering, letting sleep take him. When Lestrade visits again, he feigns sleep until the detective leaves.

Thomas Killian texts him weekly with no news until finally, finally, four weeks after he'd come home, on another dreary Tuesday, a text comes.

_Something pinged. Scotland. Will send coordinates. You will need backup. Working on that._

_Tell me more?_

_Secure email. Tomorrow._

John does not sleep at all that night. He calls Lestrade, trying to decide if the DI will help him in this or rat him out to Mycroft. In the end, as he has since this started, he opts for trusting Lestrade. And Lestrade does not, despite much protest, disappoint him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Excerpt: Sherlock: December 18th, 2010 - South Laggan, Scotland:**

It has been six months since the bombing of Saint Bart's hospital. It's nearly Christmas.

Sherlock has traveled thirteen countries and four continents. He has killed nineteen men, has brought the authorities down on hundreds more.

He is at his very best. And with no one- _without John_- to see it, he is also at his very worst.

He has killed James Moriarty. And Moran has not yet figured out that Sherlock is both alive and responsible for the death of his boss. So far his plans have gone off without a hitch. Or, at least, without much of one.

_J is very out of it. Still recovering from India._ Reads Molly's last text from over a week ago.

He wonders how long it took for word to reach Moran that Moriarty was dead. He'd been in London when Sherlock found his boss in Russia, tracking John.

Sherlock had planted a false trail for Moran in Germany, but John's poisoning on the flight to India had been proof that the sniper wouldn't fall for that, and it had only made Moran more cautious. Now, with Moriarty dead, Moran is a loose cannon and John will still be in his firing path.

But John is safe for now, under Mycroft's overbearing-and for the first time, welcome- watch.

He need only stay safe a while longer.

Sherlock is closing in on Moran. The sniper has slipped, allowing Sherlock the one clue he needed to find him.

After discovering Moriarty's death had been calling in the highest ranking members of Moriarty's web. The move had been a mistake, but a fortunate one for Sherlock. Moran was good at covering his tracks, but nowhere near as good as Moriarty, and he'd given a straight trail for Sherlock to follow.

And he has followed it here, deep into the forest near South Laggan in Scotland. To an installation hidden amongst the trees, built to mimic the nature around it, making it hard to see unless you knew exactly what you were looking for. It had taken Sherlock a day to discover it, to map its outline.

The installation does not have a particularly large footprint, but it goes deep into the ground. Four stories? Perhaps five. It's hard to be entirely precise from this distance, and he doesn't yet dare to get closer. There are four buildings, the power lines and disrupted earth between them clearly indicating that they connect further down.

Earlier in the day supplies trucks had come through. Food. Weapons. People. Scientists, by the look of them, and doctors. Some business men and one head of state.

Moran is obviously burrowing in for a time.

Sherlock needs to be very careful. He'd been close before, but then Mycroft's men had come blundering in like un-blooded hounds and scared his prey away.

Sherlock carefully backtracks through the wet and foggy woodland. He has the information he needs.

In his pocket his phone buzzes. Molly again.

_J is gone. L, too. M came by asking after them, eluded security. They've gone after _him_._

Sherlock's heart seizes; there is a literal and physical pain in his chest.

No. No. Where were they headed? How long ago did they leave? How did Mycroft not stop them?

His fingers are numb around his phone.

_Where are they headed?_ he finally types out.

_M didn't say much. Heard him mention Scotland on the phone._ is the response.

Bloody fucking hell.

He will have to move faster than he'd like. Better to kill Moran and die than let John come after the sniper and die.

John cannot die. Sherlock will not allow that. He knew that night at the pool he could never let it happen. Worse than boredom, monotony, no cases, worse than the silence in his head would be the bleakness of living while John was dead.

Sherlock has never been sentimental before.

But John- dear, warm John, with his tea and jumpers and steady hands, John who took lives and saved them with equal care and grief- has broken him down.

Sherlock had thought, once or twice, of how dangerous he could be if he did allow himself to love. Because it was never simple with him. It was always _all_ and _everything,_ and he'd imagined that if he did ever love someone, those few times he'd entertained the notion, that he would take until there was nothing left.

But John gives and gives and never seems to run out. He is bottomless. And so Sherlock loves John, yes, but it is more than that. John is his. His to touch and possess and amaze and study and examine and- _John is his_. And it was exactly as he'd thought it would be, his loving someone.

Sherlock puts his phone away and looks at the buildings ahead of him, shoulders squared, heartbeat calm and regular, a possessive fire burning in his gut.

There is no more time for plans or tricks or cleverness.

There is only time for killing.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Nine**

John's lost Lestrade somewhere back in the mist, in the tangle of trees and dead leaves and flooded streams. He might have waited, might have gone back to make sure the DI was alright, but he can't lose the man he's chasing. The wet ground sucks at his shoes, hinders him, and a steady rain has been falling since yesterday afternoon, but he was a soldier once and has run through bloodied sand and dust storms and this is _nothing_.

The noise ahead of him stops, and he freezes. A few feet before him is a small clearing, the sky above clouded with rain, the ground teeming with fog. He can't even see to the other side. Every instinct is telling him to retreat from unfamiliar territory where both his vision and hearing are compromised by the rain, and John can only hope that there's only one enemy ahead of him and not more waiting in the trees.

But John's not letting Moriarty go.

It has to end now.

Across the clearing a twig breaks. It's purposeful, an announcement of intention. An offer to duel.

How can John not accept?

John steps out of the cover of trees, gun raised and aimed.

Moriarty cuts a sharp figure against the fog-shrouded tree line. He seems taller, larger, in the dark of night and the wet fog, features shrouded. Like a monster from a child's storybook.

John's finger twitches on the trigger. He's well within range to shoot, and he can feel the weight of the other man's aim on him. His heart. Moriarty is aiming for John's heart, which is funny, really, when John thinks about it. Doesn't he know when Sherlock died, John died, too?

The man before him sucks in a loud breath.

"Shut up," John snarls. "Don't. Don't you open your mouth. You killed Sherlock, you killed my- my best friend, my... you killed him because you were bored and-" he presses his lips together and takes a deep breath. "I'm going to kill you now. You understand? I'm going to kill you."

"John,"

John goes still. His heart beats frantically in his chest, and his breath catches. And then his bad leg gives out and he goes to one knee in the mud. He looks up through the rain into the face of the one man he never expected to see. Not here. Not anywhere ever again.

. "Sherlock?" he breathes out.

There is a loud crack. And fire in his shoulder. The left one. The scarred one.

Sherlock moves faster than John's eye can follow, dropping to his knees at John's side and raising a gun that John does not recognize.

"John. John." Sherlock's face comes into focus, almost too close.

John doesn't have time to respond. Sherlock wraps his long arms awkwardly around him and drags him from the clearing, ducking behind a large tree.

"It was a warning shot. He doesn't miss. He's realized who I am," Sherlock is saying, under his breath.

John presses his free hand into his shoulder, hissing at the pain. He's fairly certain the damage isn't major but there is a lot of blood pouring between his fingers. He feels light-headed already, his head is heavy on his neck. He lets his chin drop to his chest.

Long fingers grab his face, pulling his eyes open. "Do not die," Sherlock demands.

John tries to nod. "_You _did."

"No, I didn't. Wake up. Stay awake. Keep pressure on that. You'll be fine."

John tries to help when Sherlock pulls him to his feet, but he knows he's just making it worse. By the time they're up and moving he's having trouble focusing on what's going on, where he is.

He is only aware of the warmth of Sherlock against his side.

His hands are shaking, slick with blood, he can't keep the amount of pressure he needs to on the wound.

"Pressure. Keep the pressure." A hand immediately covers his and pushes down. "Lestrade isn't far, just keep your feet under you. John! Listen to me." Sherlock jerks him roughly.

John stares up at Sherlock's face, stumbling along at the taller man's side. He blinks against the cold rain that wets his face. Panic, dulled by pain, is crawling up his spine. And he thinks, _How?_ _Sherlock is dead. He's _dead_._

How is he here? John had almost shot him. John had almost _killed_ him. Except that Sherlock should be dead.

Sherlock stops abruptly, and John is shoved away from his warmth and into someone else.

"Get him out of here," Sherlock says, obviously not speaking to John. "Are you listening to me? There's an assassin, _the_ assassin whose sole task is to kill John Watson. Get him out of here."

"You're dead." Lestrade. John recognizes his voice.

He tries to open his eyes, to tell him he's fine. Too beg Sherlock not to let him go, to come with them. He doesn't even know anymore. It's so hard to focus his thoughts. There is more talk over his head but he can no longer understand the words.

Eventually he is moving again, stumbling through the woods. There's a gunshot, and he pauses, struggling against the hold Lestrade has on him. Lestrade speaks to him sharply and then there's more pressure on his wound. He gasps and jerks and loses consciousness.

He wakes to cold fingers wrapped around his wrist, his name being called.

"John." The deep voice is quite insistent, invading the calm darkness around him.

John groans, tries to roll over and shove his head into the pillow, but finds he can't. He closes his eyes tighter instead. He'd been having a dream that was both wonderful and horrible. He'd been shot but oh, oh it was alright, because Sherlock had been there.

It had been like the dream at the airport in Germany. In the hospital in India. The hospital...

"John. Please. You must wake up, right now. I haven't got much time and I need you to wake up."

John's eyes fly open. He blinks. Closes them again for several moments before opening them again.

"Am I dead?" he asks. Because he can't possibly be seeing this.

"Thankfully not," Sherlock answers, sounding as if the idea would put him out.

"And neither are you?"

If anyone could fake his death it would be Sherlock, and he _had_ disappeared before. And John's mostly starting to feel stupid for ever believing it. And stupid for traipsing across the continent and-

"It was really you. Germany. India. I thought they were dreams."

"I know. I was counting on that." Matter of fact. Except his hand is tight around John's.

"So then you know- you know how much it hurt-" he chokes on the words, on the grief. And finally, yes, there it is, the blinding fury. "Was it funny to you, then?" he demands.

Sherlock looks genuinely injured by the accusation. "Don't be idiotic, John."

"Oh? Oh, I'm idiotic, yeah? You. _You_ are a monster. Do you know that? Get out."

"I did it for you." Sherlock's voice rises, indignant.

John's heart monitor is beeping furiously. "Get. Out. I can't even look at you right now."

Sherlock is very quiet for a long time. His hand around John's trembles and then releases John's.

"You were supposed to know. You were supposed to come with me. I was... lost without you, John. I did it to keep you safe."

John can't look at him. If he looks at him he won't be angry anymore. If John looks at Sherlock right now he will simply fall apart. And he cannot do that.

Sherlock leans over, his lips brushing John's forehead. John shivers.

"Mycroft is taking me in. He's quite displeased with me and I have broken more than a few international laws. It may... be a time before I can come home." There is a long pause. "I did do it for you. And I wanted you with me every moment I was away." The words are stiff and awkward.

John doesn't move until Sherlock leaves. He leans back into the pillow, pushes the button for his pain relief and closes his eyes.

When he wakes a second time it's to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade talking quietly in the corner, obviously trying not to wake him.

"Hello," he says, voice rough with sleep. They both jump.

"Oh, John. There you are! You've got to stop doing this to me, dear, I don't think my heart can take it anymore." Mrs. Hudson tucks his twisted covers up around his chest, careful of the tubes and wires and his bandaged shoulder. She makes soft tutting noises and lifts his head gently to fluff the pillow.

John smiles at her, but it's forced. He's watching Lestrade out of the corner of his eye.

"Mrs. Hudson, would you mind giving us a moment?"

Mrs. Hudson pouts. "If you need it. John, I've unpacked all your things. You're all set to come home once they let you out of here."

John blinks and frowns. "Sorry, unpacked me where?"

She smiles and pats his arm, starting to make her way to the door. "Baker Street, dear. I'm sure with Sherlock home you'll both be back to how it was in no time. Isn't it lovely, him not being dead? I'll come back tomorrow. You rest."

John stares after her with his mouth open. Lestrade clears his throat and takes the seat beside John's bed.

He shrugs. "She wouldn't be deterred. She ordered Mycroft's men around as if they were her own hired help."

John laughs, low and bitter. "Just like that, huh? Sherlock's alive and everyone's just going to bloody well go along with it? Well, I'm not. I'm not going back to Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes can stuff it. Do you- are you really-" He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to breathe.

"Come on, John. You'll forgive him. You know you will. I saw what you were like with him gone. And now Mycroft's got him and it may be awhile before Sherlock can get out of that. He's caused a mess. International incidents, and the like, the way only Sherlock can. Mycroft's hands are tied. I know that you're angry, but by the time he does get home I'll wager you won't be." He looked at John's expression. "As much, at least."

John scoffed. "Are you seriously telling me to just let it go? Give him a big hug and let it go? Months of mourning a man who wasn't even really dead?"

Lestrade smirks. "You could give him a great shag instead. Might actually help with the last part, yeah?"

And for the second time in ten minutes John is gob smacked.

Lestrade's smile widens. "I'm not as bad a detective as Sherlock likes to believe. If you two weren't shagging before you were close to it. You'll forgive him, John. Go home to Baker Street when they let you out. Break his violin, put glue in his beakers. But go home."

John thinks of breaking the violin and is appalled. He would never. But he would like to take more than one swing at his consulting detective. How could he have done this? Let John suffer, going mad, absolutely mad with grief. Chasing after a murderous lunatic and his pet sniper! It's cruel. It's...

He'd said, though, hadn't he, that something had gone wrong. John was supposed to have been with him. Is that enough? In the end, did the intention matter that much?

John isn't sure.

Two weeks later he still isn't sure. But he does go home to Baker Street.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Ten**

Sherlock has been in Mycroft's custody for twenty-three days, three hours, and forty-seven minutes

Had John's nerves not been frayed past the point of reason by then he might have it counted down to the second as well.

He is sitting in Sherlock's chair, having slept for all of two hours. It is dark out, and John hasn't bothered with the lamps, but the lights of London flood into the flat. The rain outside is heavy and oppressive, and has been for the last two days. John's eyes are glued to Sherlock's violin case, holding his mobile in a grip so tight his hand is beginning to cramp. He's not heard from Mycroft in the last twenty-four hours.

Since Sherlock was taken into custody, John has gotten a text a day from Mycroft. Mycroft tells him Sherlock is fine, is being difficult and will be returned to him any day now. Lestrade comes by and tries to distract him with news from the Yard and mundane conversation.

Mycroft, he ignores. He's honestly not sure if he can trust the man or his messages. And Lestrade's visits usually end with John's temper flaring and him tossing Lestrade out of the flat. John would feel bad if he wasn't so caught up in the maelstrom that is Sherlock's absence.

His phone beeps, startling him.

_It will be me, put the gun away. - SH_

John stares at the text message, then scrambles out of the chair and to his feet. He leaves the gun where it's carefully balanced on Sherlock's violin case and flings the door wide open.

Sherlock is soaking wet, his skin white and translucent as skimmed milk. He stares at John, a starving man at a feast, as if John is the _best and only_ thing he could possibly put his eyes on at that moment.

"You utter bastard," John says. "I hate you." And he means it, he does. He hates Sherlock right now. But not more than he loves him, _never_ more than he loves him.

Sherlock ducks his head, hands moving fast to grip John's upper arms, and then his lips are on John's. He slams John back into the wall and kicks the door shut, and all the while that perfect mouth is devouring John. Sherlock makes desperate, greedy noises that John has never heard him make. His fingers dig into John's skin as he pulls him close.

John gets his hand between them and pushes Sherlock, but only far enough away to break the kiss.

"Don't, Sherlock. Don't touch me right now." And he means it, despite how breathless he is, and despite the fact that his own hands are now clinging to Sherlock's wet shirt instead of pushing him further away. He might fall apart if Sherlock keeps this up. And he's done enough falling apart over Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"Moriarty's dead," Sherlock tells him, shaking John violently as he speaks. "Moran is dead."

"You killed them?" Shock colors the question even though John had assumed as much when Sherlock visited him in the hospital.

The smile that curls Sherlock's mouth is vicious and terrifying. John wants to taste it. He shakes his head a little, but the thought won't go. And Sherlock must read it in his face or in the tension in his body, because he lowers his head and kisses John with an almost cruel intensity.

John scrambles for any kind of purchase because Sherlock is very nearly pushing him off the floor and against the wall. His hands grip John achingly hard, his whole body pressing into John's as if he could crawl completely inside of him. One long, muscled leg presses up between John's thighs, and John's gasps at the pressure against his cock.

"John. John. Let me touch you. You'll let me. For _me_, just for me." Sherlock kisses and bites the word into John's neck. "You'll let me, of course you will. _Say_ you will, John. Your heart, it's too _fast_."

He won't shut up. Not that Sherlock ever shuts up. But this... and the whole while he is thrusting against John's leg, cock hard and hot through layers of cloth, and he's pushing his thigh against John's cock, and John can't fucking breathe, can't think, can't remember the world beyond the feel of Sherlock moving his body against him.

Sherlock unbuttons John's trousers, pushes them down and grasps his cock, long fingers wrapping around the hard length of it. Sherlock whines deep in the back of his throat and buries his face in John's neck.

"If you _ever_ leave me behind again, you tosser, I will _kill_ you. Oh fuck, fuck, Sherlock. I mean it. God. More, please._ Please._" Because threatening and begging have become one and the same, really.

"You could, that's fine. I wouldn't mind you killing me, I wouldn't mind if it was _you_."

It should be the kind of thing to make John stop in his tracks. It should make him pull away and stare in shock. But it doesn't. He never feels what he should when Sherlock's around. And this- the way Sherlock's wild brilliant madness harmonizes so beautifully with John's own quieter madness- is why he will follow Sherlock Holmes anywhere, _everywhere_.

He grabs Sherlock's face, fingers brutal on that perfectly sculpted face, over cheekbones he wants to lick, to bite, and he kisses him.

It is not pretty. It is not gentle or sweet. It is unbridled and confusing and unchecked. It is the very definition of John's love for this mad man. Someone's lip is torn, there's the copper taste of blood and the salt of tears that John is sure are his own. His tongue shoves into Sherlock's mouth and his fingers are pressed so hard into Sherlock's cheeks that he can feel the movement of the kiss.

He ruts against Sherlock's palm. He needs this, the naked flesh, and to mark Sherlock with his come. He tears at Sherlock's belt, pulls it off with a sharp sound and a clatter as he tosses it across the floor. The button on his pants pops off and John pushes Sherlock's pants down just far enough that his cock rubs against Sherlock's.

Sherlock jerks hard, his body tensing, going still, and then shaking apart. He is moaning John's name into his mouth and he sounds like he's dying. He comes, hot and wet on John's belly.

John comes as Sherlock goes boneless, all that sinew and muscle collapsing around him, face buried in his neck, hair a wild disarray and clinging to John's jaw.

John slides them down the wall, his body numb and weightless, feeling as if Sherlock's heavy weight on top of him is the only thing keeping John from floating away into the ether.

And he's sobbing, Sherlock is. Not fake tears, not an act, real and raw and painful tears that wet John's neck.

"Okay, Sherlock, it's okay." Worry cuts through the post-orgasmic haze wrapped around John's mind.

"It's fine," Sherlock wheezes through the tears. "Just a... a reaction to the emotional over exertion, and the release of orgasm." He breaks down again though, his whole body shaking with sobs.

After a few minutes Sherlock calms. He slumps down even further, sprawling in John's lap, staring up at him in the near darkness. He doesn't try to look away or hide the tracks of tears down his face.

They're a mess, the two of them. Bloody lips and wet skin and clothes, covered in sweat and semen.

"You need to dry off and warm up," he tells Sherlock, but Sherlock waves a dismissive hand.

John tries again. "We could take a bath."

Sherlock tilts his head and considers this. "You'll wash my hair?"

John raises an eyebrow. "…if you want?" he answers, thoroughly confused and surprised.

"My head is particularly sensitive. I don't like people touching my head."

Sherlock is proving something to John. _I trust you_, he is saying.

"You've got to get up first," John says. Sherlock grunts but does not move.

One long fingered hand marches its way up John's rib cage. It stops over John's heart and taps out a beat on John's flesh.

"You were worried," he says, still tapping. "I was worried about you worrying. I don't know that that's happened before. And Mycroft was being a daft cow about the whole thing."

John frowns.

"I wanted you there, when I went after him. You make me... better, sharper. But I couldn't wait. Once you thought I was dead I had to go. You understand."

Not a question. And John doesn't really understand, not the way it makes sense in Sherlock's brain at least, he's sure. But he understands in his own way. He still hates it.

"Never again, Sherlock. I mean it. I'm your partner and we do this together. Even if it throws off your sodding timing."

Sherlock hums, but doesn't speak.

"Sherlock?"

"I won't make you a promise I can't keep. You wouldn't have been able to keep it either. You'd have done the same thing if you'd realized the danger." It's a little snappish and petulant, but his finger is still keeping time with John's heart.

"Okay," John says finally, quietly. He shifts his leg under Sherlock's head. "Bath. You're going to get sick. Bath, and then I'm ordering takeout. You haven't eaten."

Sherlock smiles and stands with an easy, fluid grace. He offers a hand down and helps John up as well.

Sherlock draws the bath water almost too warm, but John sinks down into it, spreading his legs so that Sherlock can settle between them. The taller man does so with a soft sigh, legs folding and arms resting over John's raised knees. His head falls back onto John's shoulder. He kisses a sensitive spot of John's neck.

"Why do you taste so good?" Sherlock murmurs, setting about with some determination to leave quite the love bite on John's neck.

"Sentiment," John says breathlessly. His cock is already hardening against Sherlock's back.

"Ah, of course." Sherlock bites down on flesh that already feels bruised and then licks a broad stripe over it.

When Sherlock lifts his head his lips are tilted in a self-satisfied smile. "You bruise wonderfully," he tells John.

"Moriarty seemed to think so," he doesn't really mean to say it, he's not even sure where it came from except that maybe he's still angry that Sherlock has been gone so long, that John's spent so long thinking he was dead.

Sherlock's expression goes cold. "No. Not ever again. They're dead now."

John runs a wet hand through Sherlock's hair, and he shudders against John.

"This." Sherlock kisses over the mark. "Sentiment. Affection." The words roll off his tongue with the air of someone speaking a foreign language. It is very nearly endearing. Sherlock turns his head to meet John's eyes. "I wouldn't hurt you." John's not sure if Sherlock means to sound so uncertain, but John doesn't point it out either way.

"I know," he tells Sherlock. And knows he is the better liar.

He tangles his hands in Sherlock's hair, and runs his nails lightly over his scalp. Sherlock bucks up, cock hard. He groans as John does it again.

"You're so responsive." John kisses his neck.

John runs his fingers over Sherlock's scalp again, and Sherlock shudders. He twirls a curl around his finger, staring at the color. Ginger at the ends, a very dark brown, nearly black at the roots.

Sherlock tilts his head back and looks up at John.

"You can cut it off, if it offends," he says calmly.

John smiles and shrugs, kisses the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"I don't mind it."

"I don't like yours." Matter of fact, no offense meant.

John shakes his head and smiles against Sherlock's skin. "I'm due a haircut anyway. If I cut it a bit shorter all the dark will be gone."

"Short. Like when you were in Afghanistan. I might like that. Less to touch, though."

Sherlock turns, water spilling over the edge as he straddles John's lap. John stares up into Sherlock's light eyes, more gray than blue or green right now.

Sherlock's long fingers gently smooth over John's face, down his neck, across his collarbone. As if John were the one who'd died and come back.

"John." A thousand meanings just in the way Sherlock says his name.

He gently pushes Sherlock back and stands, dragging Sherlock up with him. He grabs two towels, but Sherlock wraps them up in one.

John pauses for a moment, considering whose room to go to. Sherlock leans forward to bite the lobe of John's ear. John shudders, cock giving a twitch of interest.

"Yours." Sherlock answers John's unasked question, voice rough and heated and Christ- the things Sherlock's voice can do to him.

John follows him up the stairs. Sherlock's step is not as steady as it should be, and John wonders if it's because of a new injury or exhaustion. He thinks of Sherlock injured and alone and his stomach sinks. He stumbles, up instead of down, reaching for Sherlock and not the banister. Sherlock half turns, hands holding John's wrists to steady him and pulling his arms around his hips at the same time. John rests his head against the small of Sherlock's back and huffs out a bitter laugh.

When had it become possible for one man, one impossible and beautiful man, to so thoroughly throw John Watson off balance?

"Were you injured?" he asks.

Sherlock's fingertips tighten on him. "Knife wound to the thigh. Nothing serious."

John says nothing but holds tight to Sherlock and tries to remember how to breath. Or that Moriarty is dead and beyond John's desire to make him bleed.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks.

John thinks of the pool. _Alright? Are you alright? _Sherlock on his knees, ripping the semtex off, looking sick. They are flip sides of the same coin, John thinks. And that's a really lovely thought.

"I'm fine," John says, against the damp skin of Sherlock's back.

They climb the rest of the stairs, John clutching at Sherlock's hip with one hand and Sherlock's fingers wrapped around John's wrist.

Sherlock's muttering under his breath, too low for John to hear. And then, suddenly, as they pass the threshold and stumble towards John's bed, he says, "I thought about this a great deal. I masturbated. I tried not thinking of you, but it didn't work. So I just thought of you. I want you to fuck me. I stretched myself to see what I could take. I think I could take quite a bit."

And, Jesus, the image that makes in John's head.

John's knees are suddenly made of water. He moves away from Sherlock and sits on the bed, staring dumbly up at his flat mate. Sherlock wraps the towel around his waist but it does little to cover him.

He looks unsure. "John? Is that not good?"

John's heart trips over itself and he reaches out for Sherlock. Sherlock stumbles forward, lands hard on his knees before John, and presses his face against the inside of John's thigh.

"It's fine, Sherlock. It's good, Christ."

John gently pushes the towel off Sherlock's shoulders, hands ghosting gently over sharp shoulder blades, counting the ridges of his spine. Sherlock has lost so much weight.

"Beautiful," John breathes out, and Sherlock looks up at him sharply. "You. You're unbelievable. Brilliant. You came back from the dead." He pauses, grasping Sherlock's face in his rough hands.

"You were thinking I'm too thin," Sherlock says.

"I was. Doesn't make you less beautiful, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowns, as if he's having trouble filing that information away.

"You're the first person, the only one, I've felt desire like this for," he finally says. "It used to only be the work."

John nods, voice caught in his throat. When he does finally speak, it's rough and breathless. "I know."

He settles half on top of John.

His face is so close it's nearly blurry. "Do you forgive me, then?"

John wraps a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and kisses him. And keeps on kissing him.

Once Sherlock is gasping, desperate and hard against John's thigh, he asks, "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"John. John. Please."

"Tell me what you want, Sherlock. I've missed your voice. Christ, tell me anything."

"Put your fingers in me. Two. Don't go slowly" He hitches one leg further up John's chest and pulls John's hand between his legs.

"Jeeeesus," John groans out, fingertips pressing against Sherlock's entrance. "We need lube, condoms. I can't just... I'll hurt you. I don't want to hurt you." But he pushes the tip of a finger past the tight ring of muscle.

Sherlock shivers and his body goes completely limp against John's. "I wouldn't mind if you hurt me. You can do whatever you'd like with me."

John's feels a pang of hurt at that and a deafening wave of protective possessiveness. "Don't say that. No one's allowed to hurt you. Not even me. Not even me."

Sherlock pushes back against John's hand, trying in vain to get more of John's finger. Sherlock moans and precome smears wetly against John's side.

"More, please. Two. Fuck me with two fingers and then I'll get the lube." And then he's panting _please_ and _John_ into the scar on John's shoulder.

John pulls his finger away and brings his hand up to Sherlock's face and presses his fingers against his lips instead.

"Suck them first," he says, not quite a command.

Sherlock's eyes flash and he sucks them in without hesitation. John imagines that mouth on his cock and it takes renewed interest in the proceedings.

After a moment he takes his fingers back and does as Sherlock's begging him, pressing two in without hesitation.

The sound Sherlock makes is not human, it's the hottest thing John's ever heard. He pumps his fingers in and out in a steady rhythm, watching as Sherlock's eyes close and his head falls back, revealing the long line of pale neck.

John can't resist that. He kisses and bites, sucks another mark onto Sherlock's skin. Everyone will know, will look at him and know what's been done to him.

"I thought you were dead," he says, without meaning to. His chest seizes with pain even as his mouth finds the pulse point on Sherlock's neck and kisses the steady beat. "Oh, god. Christ. Fuck. Sherlock."

Sherlock rolls up onto John's lap, straddling his hips, dislodging John's fingers, and pressing his ass against John's cock.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to work out that way," Sherlock tells him, voice carefully shuttered.

His hand reaches back behind him, long fingers wrapping around John's cock and pressing it against his entrance.

"Don't," John says weakly.

But Sherlock, being Sherlock, does not listen. He pushes back, hand steady. John's cock pushes in, just past the tight entrance. It's too tight, no lube, it's nearly painful. _Is_ painful. John's erection flags a bit, but then Sherlock is leaning over him, kissing him.

"I can do this. I experimented. I can take it. Give it a moment. John, John." All spoken against his lips and into his mouth, his own breath being stolen to give life to Sherlock's words.

And isn't that how it should always be? How John would prefer it to be?

Sherlock sits back up, fingers in his mouth, sucking until they glisten messily with spit. Then those same fingers, lovely and long and pale fingers, are circling John's cock near Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock pushes back and another inch is enveloped in dizzying heat.

John breathes unevenly as Sherlock keeps moving, taking John's cock with agonizing slowness, until finally- oh fuck, Jesus, fuck, finally- John is completely sheathed in Sherlock's body.

Sherlock's very still, eyes glistening wetly as he looks down at John.

"You're hurt. Please, Sherlock. I don't want-"

Sherlock bends and kisses him. They both shudder at the friction that slightest of movement causes. Sherlock's cock, which had gone soft, twitches with interest.

"I hurt you. I know I did. I didn't mean to. I don't care about other people. But I don't want to hurt you," Sherlock whispers.

He's rolls his hips, just the softest of movements. He's so fucking tight, but it's not really painful anymore just- brilliant, amazing, fantastic- perfect.

"Condoms," he manages to stutter out and he really should have thought of that sooner.

"No. No. No." Sherlock's back bends and his head drops to John's chest. "It needs to be us. You said it was all fine, that first night." He says it as if John's breaking a promise.

John is a medical man. He knows it is not all fine. But it's been months, nearly a year since he's been with anyone, and he is always- usually- careful. But Christ, Sherlock. Sherlock. A virgin, yes, but the drugs before that and all this time away from John?

"I didn't use," Sherlock snaps, impatient and annoyed, but not defensive. He's being honest, then.

"We should really be safe," John says, but it's half-hearted and Sherlock knows it, continuing his movements.

Sherlock works himself up to a steady, even rhythm. John's fingers roam the flat planes of his stomach, the jutting hip bones, the surprisingly soft curve of his ass. He touches the place where their bodies join, feels his cock sliding in and out of Sherlock's body. It's all so incredibly unreal. Above him Sherlock is keening, a mad, sexual creature that John only partially recognizes.

John grabs onto Sherlock's hips, slowing the rhythm further. Sherlock looks down at him, eye practically glowing in the dim light of the room.

He isn't real, Sherlock, he can't be. Nothing so beautiful can exist in the world. And he'd been dead. Dead. John had held him as he'd grown cold and-

Sherlock moves off his cock, flips them easily, landing on his back with his legs spread wide around John's body. His cock is hard and leaking, a drastic comparison to John's, which seems to be going soft again. Christ.

"You need control. Take it. I'm here, John, I'm alive." Sherlock's voice is demanding and shaky.

Sherlock spreads his arms wide, an offering to John. John leans over him, traces the blue veins beneath his pale skin until he can wrap their fingers together. He pushes back in, gasping at the heat.

Sherlock raises one leg, like a dancer, and John releases Sherlock's hand in favor of pulling his leg over his shoulder, turning to bury his face in the crook of his knee.

And- oh, god- if John had thought he was deep inside Sherlock before, this is like existing fully inside of him, all of him. Sherlock cries out as John thrusts into him, hair in wild disarray on the pillow.

John loses himself in Sherlock's body. Wondering at every taste and smell and sound.

His orgasm almost catches him by surprise. Beneath him Sherlock goes very quiet, very still, as John comes, filling him.

Sherlock reaches between them, his hand wrapping around his cock. John thrusts twice more, feeling his semen leaking out of Sherlock with each movement, and then Sherlock is coming on both their stomachs.

John pulls out carefully, feeling for damage, checking for blood, but seeing none.

"I told you I could take it," Sherlock says, but he's breathing harshly and shaking all over.

John lies down beside him, curling protectively around Sherlock. He kisses Sherlock's sweat covered skin, his damp curls, the slight salt of tears at the corner of the detective's eyes.

He doesn't realize he's speaking- whispering _you're alive_ and _I love you_, in rapid repetition- until Sherlock stops him, kissing him harshly, hands thrust into John's hair and pulling.

They kiss lazily, too tired to move, unwilling to let each other go.

"You meant for me to go with you?" John asks, after a long stretch of quiet.

Outside the storm has quieted. Thunder rumbles far in the distance, low and content. Sherlock makes a soft noise and lifts his head to meet John's gaze.

"Of course. You were so cross the last time I just went after Moriarty without you. And it was you he was after. I thought you'd want a chance at him."

John considers this, tilting his head to get a better angle, and considers Sherlock as well. His hair is a wild riot like nothing John has ever seen. He raises a hand and begins parting and arranging the curls. Sherlock rumbles contentedly and pushes into his touch.

"How did you kill them?"

"I shot them."

John raises an eyebrow. He'd expected more of a story than that.

Sherlock huffs. "I shot Moriarty in the head twice while he was in his pants in a kitchen. Doesn't matter either way now. As for Moran." And here his light eyes fall on the new scar in John shoulder. "Well, let's just say I used considerably more bullets and it took more time for him to die."

John swallows hard and tries not to imagine what Sherlock would have done to Moran before allowing him to die. In the end he can't bring himself to mind overly much. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and presses his lips to his temple.

"I love you, you know."

"Of course." The reply is muffled by John's skin.

"You love me quite a bit, too."

He can feel the rolling of Sherlock's eyes, the brush of his lashes against John's neck. "Stop stating the obvious."

John grins. He can't help it. He's smiling even as he drifts off to sleep

"John. I'm bored. Wake up." Sherlock's voice jerks him into consciousness.

"Christ, Sherlock, go experiment."

"I like watching you."

John glares. "Then watch quietly. I need sleep."

"I've enjoyed watching you since that first day, in Saint Bart's, trying to figure you out."

"Thought you had me all figured out within the first ten minutes." It had seemed that way to John, like Sherlock had cracked him open and rummaged inside.

"Nonsense. You're far too complicated. You're a long term study, my study in humanism, if you will." If anyone else had ever said this to John he'd laugh. But this is Sherlock and he is entirely serious. "You don't mind."

And it's not a question, it rarely is with Sherlock. And of course John doesn't actually mind. "Being your experiment? I suppose not."

"Study, John. Study. Experiment can imply something... fleeting. A study, though, that could last a lifetime. A man could spend all his years studying one subject. Taking it apart and putting it back together again." Sherlock stretches out, his warm hand curling around John's, and then his fingers dance their way up his arm.

John closes his eyes, concentrating on the feel of Sherlock's sure fingers on his skin as they move over his shoulders, dip into his collarbone, tiptoe up his neck, caress his ear.

"I have a very strong reaction to you blushing, John." Sherlock says softly, near his ear. John shudders. "I enjoy bringing the color up to the surface." Lips on his neck, sucking gently, licking then biting, then sucking again. "I think I enjoy this more though." John whimpers. "Stays longer than the flush, and people know what it is. Would know I put it there." Sherlock lowers his head and repeats the process.

John's hands clench at his sides, and he's not sure if he should move or stay still. This is good, so good. Sherlock's mouth on him, his fingertips tracing the veins in John's arms now. All so soft and quiet and possessive.

"You cannot possibly want to go again," John murmurs.

"It is incredibly possible that I do."

"Sherlock," he says warningly. "In the morning. I'm not a teenager."

"What am I supposed to do, then?"

"Watch me sleep." He scoots down on the bed, pressing his face against Sherlock's stomach.

There is silence for a long time, and then Sherlock says, "Can I take notes?"

"Enjoy yourself, mate." John slips an around across Sherlock's stomach, and Sherlock's hand comes to rest in his hair.

"What about video?"

"As long as you don't post it on your site."

Silence, and the hand in his hair goes still. When it begins petting him again Sherlock sighs, "Fine."

John kisses his stomach, closes his eyes, and falls asleep to the gentle tapping of Sherlock's mobile.


	15. Chapter 15

**Epilogue: **

**February 6th, 2011 - London, England:**

Greg sends the text, but expects he won't hear from Sherlock until things become more interesting.

Since he returned, Sherlock has only helped with one case, and that had been little more than him seeing the news reports and calling Lestrade to let him know all the details his team had missed that Sherlock could see right there from his couch. John says Sherlock is having some issues adjusting to the relationship, that the threats Moriarty had made had affected him more than he was willing to let on. Lestrade didn't quite know what that meant.

"Freak's here," Sally mutters, walking past him and towards the victim's mother. And as she moves further away Greg hears, "Should have known he'd show back up eventually."

Anderson, standing sentinel near the body, is scowling. Greg looks over and sees Sherlock walking towards the crime scene, John calmly keeping pace behind him. John catches Greg's eye and gives a little wave in greeting. Sherlock, of course, ignores everyone and goes straight to the body.

Anderson wisely steps away, taking refuge behind John. Lestrade goes over to them, not bothering to address Sherlock, who is currently sniffing the victim's hair.

"Didn't expect to get you out for this one," he says.

John winces, then smiles. "We needed the fresh air."

"Shoulder still hurting?" Greg asks, concerned. The night air is cold; it can't be good for John's newest scar.

John is watching Sherlock count steps from the body to the rubbage bin. "What? Oh, no. It feels quite fine, actually. They did a neat job of patching it up." He rubs his neck in obvious embarrassment.

And that's when Greg sees them. A series of bruises, love bites, on John's neck. The jumper and coat he's wearing only barely cover some of them. Greg blinks, looks to Sherlock, then back and John, and finds himself blinking again.

John seems to realize what he's doing, what he's showing. He goes red in the face and tugs his jacket collar up. But it's too late. Lestrade is not the only one to have seen.

"My god. Did he lose it and actually hurt you? Lestrade, do you see this?" Sally pushes into John's space, reaching for his collar.

"Donovan, leave off," Greg tries to warn.

She manages to pull John's jumper and coat down on his shoulder to reveal bruises all over his collarbone. John pulls away with a half strangled shout, Sally begins lecturing about assault and arrests, and the whole bloody thing might have been funny if Greg hadn't caught sight of Sherlock just then.

Sherlock is done with his inspection and observation. He's bearing down on the four of them with a thunderous expression on his face, fists balled at his sides. Greg honestly isn't sure that he won't hit Sally. And suddenly he can see exactly what John had been speaking about. Sherlock Holmes had never been particularly adept at sharing, after all.

"John," he tries to warn. And he is very lucky that John Watson is so attuned to danger that the tone in his voice is enough to give him fair warning.

John spins in an about face, hands coming up in front of him just in time to slam into Sherlock's chest and stop him dead in his tracks.

"No. Sherlock, we discussed this." John grabs handfuls of Sherlock's shirt to hold him in place.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with him now?" Sally exclaims. "Do you see his neck?"

Suddenly this whole thing seems to be heading into disastrous territory. Greg grabs Sally's arm, intending to pull her away, but Sherlock's snarling answer to her question stops them all.

"I don't see how my leaving love bites on _my _partner's neck is any of your concern, Sergeant."

Sally sputters; Anderson goes pale and still.

"Well, that's coming out for you. Couldn't do it quietly, could you?" Greg says, grinning. Because, really, all this is quite hilarious now that John has Sherlock in hand, literally.

"You're shagging?" Anderson sounds horrified. "But he's... I mean... he doesn't."

John sighs, still watching Sherlock. "Oh, I assure you he does. And does it quite well, not that it's any of your business."

"So you and the-"

"Alright, alright," Greg interrupts. "Last I checked there was a dead victim and his very living mother to be dealt with. Anyone who would like to keep their current positions ought to consider getting back to that."

Sally and Anderson leave, but they keep looking back in disbelief.

"I'm guessing this is what you meant, then?" He asks John, feeling like a third wheel and knowing neither Sherlock nor John cared enough to even notice he's there.

"You'd think _I_ was the one off playing dead for months," John snaps. Sherlock winces as if struck. "We can't keep avoiding cases. Or the shops. Or leaving the bloody flat, Sherlock. You said you were okay. If you'd just admit that this whole ordeal has-"

"If you say I'm traumatized one more time I won't lay another finger on you, no matter how you beg."

John snorts. "That's crap. You're worse than a teenager."

"And _that's_ my cue to go." Greg backs away slowly. "Sherlock, when you're done can you come tell me what you've figured out?"

"It was the step-father, and this isn't the first time. How do you keep your job?"

"Sherlock. Pay attention," John snaps.

"I am. I am perfectly fine. I'm certainly not suffering PTSD! There was no reason for her to manhandle you. You can't expect me to tolerate that!"

"I absolutely can!"

Greg rejoins the force, ignoring the look on Sally and Anderson's faces. "They'll, uh, be back over in a moment. Why don't we start bagging up evidence."

They take more than a moment. In fact, after fifteen minutes pass he goes to find them. And find them he does. Between the buildings, John is pressing Sherlock up against the brick, mouths locked, one leg thrust between Sherlock's thighs, and- Christ. And that's a bit more than he ever needed to see.

He takes a quick picture though. Always good to have, just in case.


End file.
